Short Stories by Chekhov
back from the court would tumble into bed. . . . Suddenly the figure of
a man appeared round the corner.
"A watchman, no doubt," thought Zaikin. But going nearer and looking
more closely he recognized in the figure the summer visitor in the
ginger trousers.
"You're not asleep?" he asked.
"No, I can't sleep," sighed Ginger Trousers. "I am enjoying Nature . . .
. A welcome visitor, my wife's mother, arrived by the night train, you
know. She brought with her our nieces . . . splendid girls! I was
delighted to see them, although . . . it's very damp! And you, too, are
enjoying Nature?"
"Yes," grunted Zaikin, "I am enjoying it, too. . . . Do you know whether
there is any sort of tavern or restaurant in the neighbourhood?"
Ginger Trousers raised his eyes to heaven and meditated profoundly.
TYPHUS
A YOUNG lieutenant called Klimov was travelling from Petersburg to
Moscow in a smoking carriage of the mail train. Opposite him was sitting
an elderly man with a shaven face like a sea captain's, by all
appearances a well-to-do Finn or Swede. He pulled at his pipe the whole
journey and kept talking about the same subject:
"Ha, you are an officer! I have a brother an officer too, only he is a
naval officer. . . . He is a naval officer, and he is stationed at
Kronstadt. Why are you going to Moscow?"
"I am serving there."
"Ha! And are you a family man?"
"No, I live with my sister and aunt."
"My brother's an officer, only he is a naval officer; he has a wife and
three children. Ha!"
The Finn seemed continually surprised at something, and gave a broad
idiotic grin when he exclaimed "Ha!" and continually puffed at his
stinking pipe. Klimov, who for some reason did not feel well, and found
it burdensome to answer questions, hated him with all his heart. He
dreamed of how nice it would be to snatch the wheezing pipe out of his
hand and fling it under the seat, and drive the Finn himself into
another compartment.
"Detestable people these Finns and . . . Greeks," he thought.
"Absolutely superfluous, useless, detestable people. They simply fill up
space on the earthly globe. What are they for?"
And the thought of Finns and Greeks produced a feeling akin to sickness
all over his body. For the sake of comparison he tried to think of the
French, of the Italians, but his efforts to think of these people evoked
in his mind, for some reason, nothing but images of organ-grinders,
naked women, and the foreign oleographs which hung over the chest of
drawers at home, at his aunt's.
Altogether the officer felt in an abnormal state. He could not arrange
his arms and legs comfortably on the seat, though he had the whole seat
to himself. His mouth felt dry and sticky; there was a heavy fog in his
brain; his thoughts seemed to be straying, not only within his head, but
outside his skull, among the seats and the people that were shrouded in
the darkness of night. Through the mist in his brain, as through a
dream, he heard the murmur of voices, the rumble of wheels, the slamming
of doors. The sounds of the bells, the whistles, the guards, the running
to and fro of passengers on the platforms, seemed more frequent than
usual. The time flew by rapidly, imperceptibly, and so it seemed as
though the train were stopping at stations every minute, and metallic
voices crying continually:
"Is the mail ready?"
"Yes!" was repeatedly coming from outside.
It seemed as though the man in charge of the heating came in too often
to look at the thermometer, that the noise of trains going in the
opposite direction and the rumble of the wheels over the bridges was
incessant. The noise, the whistles, the Finn, the tobacco smoke--all this
mingling with the menace and flickering of the misty images in his
brain, the shape and character of which a man in health can never
recall, weighed upon Klimov like an unbearable nightmare. In horrible
misery he lifted his heavy head, looked at the lamp in the rays of which
shadows and misty blurs seemed to be dancing. He wanted to ask for
water, but his parched tongue would hardly move, and he scarcely had
strength to answer the Finn's questions. He tried to lie down more
comfortably and go to sleep, but he could not succeed. The Finn several
times fell asleep, woke up again, lighted his pipe, addressed him with
his "Ha!" and went to sleep again; and still the lieutenant's legs could
not get into a comfortable position, and still the menacing images stood
facing him.
At Spirovo he went out into the station for a drink of water. He saw
people sitting at the table and hurriedly eating.
"And how can they eat!" he thought, trying not to sniff the air, that
smelt of roast meat, and not to look at the munching mouths --they both
seemed to him sickeningly disgusting.
A good-looking lady was conversing loudly with a military man in a red
cap, and showing magnificent white teeth as she smiled; and the smile,
and the teeth, and the lady herself made on Klimov the same revolting
impression as the ham and the rissoles. He could not understand how it
was the military man in the red cap was not ill at ease, sitting beside
her and looking at her healthy, smiling face.
When after drinking some water he went back to his carriage, the Finn
was sitting smoking; his pipe was wheezing and squelching like a golosh
with holes in it in wet weather.
"Ha!" he said, surprised; "what station is this?"
"I don't know," answered Klimov, lying down and shutting his mouth that
he might not breathe the acrid tobacco smoke.
"And when shall we reach Tver?"
"I don't know. Excuse me, I . . . I can't answer. I am ill. I caught
cold today."
The Finn knocked his pipe against the window-frame and began talking of
his brother, the naval officer. Klimov no longer heard him; he was
thinking miserably of his soft, comfortable bed, of a bottle of cold
water, of his sister Katya, who was so good at making one comfortable,
soothing, giving one water. He even smiled when the vision of his
orderly Pavel, taking off his heavy stifling boots and putting water on
the little table, flitted through his imagination. He fancied that if he
could only get into his bed, have a drink of water, his nightmare would
give place to sound healthy sleep.
"Is the mail ready?" a hollow voice reached him from the distance.
"Yes," answered a bass voice almost at the window.
It was already the second or third station from Spirovo.
The time was flying rapidly in leaps and bounds, and it seemed as though
the bells, whistles, and stoppings would never end. In despair Klimov
buried his face in the corner of the seat, clutched his head in his
hands, and began again thinking of his sister Katya and his orderly
Pavel, but his sister and his orderly were mixed up with the misty
images in his brain, whirled round, and disappeared. His burning breath,
reflected from the back of the seat, seemed to scald his face; his legs
were uncomfortable; there was a draught from the window on his back;
but, however wretched he was, he did not want to change his position. .
. . A heavy nightmarish lethargy gradually gained possession of him and
fettered his limbs.
When he brought himself to raise his head, it was already light in the
carriage. The passengers were putting on their fur coats and moving
about. The train was stopping. Porters in white aprons and with discs on
their breasts were bustling among the passengers and snatching up their
boxes. Klimov put on his great-coat, mechanically followed the other
passengers out of the carriage, and it seemed to him that not he, but
some one else was moving, and he felt that his fever, his thirst, and
the menacing images which had not let him sleep all night, came out of
the carriage with him. Mechanically he took his luggage and engaged a
sledge-driver. The man asked him for a rouble and a quarter to drive to
Povarsky Street, but he did not haggle, and without protest got
submissively into the sledge. He still understood the difference of
numbers, but money had ceased to have any value to him.
At home Klimov was met by his aunt and his sister Katya, a girl of
eighteen. When Katya greeted him she had a pencil and exercise book in
her hand, and he remembered that she was preparing for an examination as
a teacher. Gasping with fever, he walked aimlessly through all the rooms
without answering their questions or greetings, and when he reached his
bed he sank down on the pillow. The Finn, the red cap, the lady with the
white teeth, the smell of roast meat, the flickering blurs, filled his
consciousness, and by now he did not know where he was and did not hear
the agitated voices.
When he recovered consciousness he found himself in bed, undressed, saw
a bottle of water and Pavel, but it was no cooler, nor softer, nor more
comfortable for that. His arms and legs, as before, refused to lie
comfortably; his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he heard the
wheezing of the Finn's pipe. . . . A stalwart, black-bearded doctor was
busy doing something beside the bed, brushing against Pavel with his
broad back.
"It's all right, it's all right, young man," he muttered. "Excellent,
excellent . . . goo-od, goo-od . . . !"
The doctor called Klimov "young man," said "goo-od" instead of "good"
and "so-o" instead of "so."
"So-o . . . so-o . . . so-o," he murmured. "Goo-od, goo-od . . . !
Excellent, young man. You mustn't lose heart!"
The doctor's rapid, careless talk, his well-fed countenance, and
condescending "young man," irritated Klimov.
"Why do you call me 'young man'?" he moaned. "What familiarity! Damn it
all!"
And he was frightened by his own voice. The voice was so dried up, so
weak and peevish, that he would not have known it.
"Excellent, excellent!" muttered the doctor, not in the least offended.
. . . "You mustn't get angry, so-o, so-o, so-s. . . ."
And the time flew by at home with the same startling swiftness as in the
railway carriage. The daylight was continually being replaced by the
dusk of evening. The doctor seemed never to leave his bedside, and he
heard at every moment his "so-o, so-o, so-o." A continual succession of
people was incessantly crossing the bedroom. Among them were: Pavel, the
Finn, Captain Yaroshevitch, Lance-Corporal Maximenko, the red cap, the
lady with the white teeth, the doctor. They were all talking and waving
their arms, smoking and eating. Once by daylight Klimov saw the chaplain
of the regiment, Father Alexandr, who was standing before the bed,
wearing a stole and with a prayer-book in his hand. He was muttering
something with a grave face such as Klimov had never seen in him before.
The lieutenant remembered that Father Alexandr used in a friendly way to
call all the Catholic officers "Poles," and wanting to amuse him, he
cried:
"Father, Yaroshevitch the Pole has climbed up a pole!"
But Father Alexandr, a light-hearted man who loved a joke, did not
smile, but became graver than ever, and made the sign of the cross over
Klimov. At night-time by turn two shadows came noiselessly in and out;
they were his aunt and sister. His sister's shadow knelt down and
prayed; she bowed down to the ikon, and her grey shadow on the wall
bowed down too, so that two shadows were praying. The whole time there
was a smell of roast meat and the Finn's pipe, but once Klimov smelt the
strong smell of incense. He felt so sick he could not lie still, and
began shouting:
"The incense! Take away the incense!"
There was no answer. He could only hear the subdued singing of the
priest somewhere and some one running upstairs.
When Klimov came to himself there was not a soul in his bedroom. The
morning sun was streaming in at the window through the lower blind, and
a quivering sunbeam, bright and keen as the sword's edge, was flashing