Delphi Complete Works of Anton Chekhov (Illustrated) (113 page)

A PLAY

Translated by Constance Garnett 1887

“PAVEL VASSILYEVITCH, there’s a lady here, asking for you,” Luka announced. “She’s been waiting a good hour. . . .”

Pavel Vassilyevitch had only just finished lunch. Hearing of the lady, he frowned and said:

“Oh, damn her! Tell her I’m busy.”

“She has been here five times already, Pavel Vassilyevitch. She says she really must see you.... She’s almost crying.”

“H’m... very well, then, ask her into the study.”

Without haste Pavel Vassilyevitch put on his coat, took a pen in one hand, and a book in the other, and trying to look as though he were very busy he went into the study. There the visitor was awaiting him -- a large stout lady with a red, beefy face, in spectacles. She looked very respectable, and her dress was more than fashionable (she had on a crinolette of four storeys and a high hat with a reddish bird in it). On seeing him she turned up her eyes and folded her hands in supplication.

“You don’t remember me, of course,” she began in a high masculine tenor, visibly agitated. “ I... I have had the pleasure of meeting you at the Hrutskys.... I am Mme. Murashkin. . . .”

“A. . . a... a... h’m... Sit down! What can I do for you?”

“You... you see... I... I . . .” the lady went on, sitting down and becoming still more agitated. “You don’t remember me.... I’m Mme. Murashkin.... You see I’m a great admirer of your talent and always read your articles with great enjoyment.... Don’t imagine I’m flattering you -- God forbid! -- I’m only giving honour where honour is due.... I am always reading you... always! To some extent I am myself not a stranger to literature -- that is, of course... I will not venture to call myself an authoress, but... still I have added my little quota... I have published at different times three stories for children.... You have not read them, of course.... I have translated a good deal and... and my late brother used to write for
The Cause.
”

“To be sure... er -- er -- er ---- What can I do for you?”

“You see... (the lady cast down her eyes and turned redder) I know your talents... your views, Pavel Vassilyevitch, and I have been longing to learn your opinion, or more exactly... to ask your advice. I must tell you I have perpetrated a play, my first-born --
pardon pour l’expression!
-- and before sending it to the Censor I should like above all things to have your opinion on it.

Nervously, with the flutter of a captured bird, the lady fumbled in her skirt and drew out a fat manuscript.

Pavel Vassilyevitch liked no articles but his own. When threatened with the necessity of reading other people’s, or listening to them, he felt as though he were facing the cannon’s mouth. Seeing the manuscript he took fright and hastened to say:

“Very good,... leave it,... I’ll read it.”

“Pavel Vassilyevitch,” the lady said languishingly, clasping her hands and raising them in supplication, “I know you’re busy.... Your every minute is precious, and I know you’re inwardly cursing me at this moment, but... Be kind, allow me to read you my play.... Do be so very sweet!”

“I should be delighted . . .” faltered Pavel Vassilyevitch; “but, Madam, I’m... I’m very busy... . I’m... I’m obliged to set off this minute.”

“Pavel Vassilyevitch,” moaned the lady and her eyes filled with tears, “I’m asking a sacrifice! I am insolent, I am intrusive, but be magnanimous. To-morrow I’m leaving for Kazan and I should like to know your opinion to-day. Grant me half an hour of your attention... only one half-hour... I implore you!

Pavel Vassilyevitch was cotton-wool at core, and could not refuse. When it seemed to him that the lady was about to burst into sobs and fall on her knees, he was overcome with confusion and muttered helplessly.

“Very well; certainly... I will listen... I will give you half an hour.”

The lady uttered a shriek of joy, took off her hat and settling herself, began to read. At first she read a scene in which a footman and a house maid, tidying up a sumptuous drawing-room, talked at length about their young lady, Anna Sergyevna, who was building a school and a hospital in the village. When the footman had left the room, the maidservant pronounced a monologue to the effect that education is light and ignorance is darkness; then Mme. Murashkin brought the footman back into the drawing-room and set him uttering a long monologue concerning his master, the General, who disliked his daughter’s views, intended to marry her to a rich
kammer junker,
and held that the salvation of the people lay in unadulterated ignorance. Then, when the servants had left the stage, the young lady herself appeared and informed the audience that she had not slept all night, but had been thinking of Valentin Ivanovitch, who was the son of a poor teacher and assisted his sick father gratuitously. Valentin had studied all the sciences, but had no faith in friendship nor in love; he had no object in life and longed for death, and therefore she, the young lady, must save him.

Pavel Vassilyevitch listened, and thought with yearning anguish of his sofa. He scanned the lady viciously, felt her masculine tenor thumping on his eardrums, understood nothing, and thought:

“The devil sent you... as though I wanted to listen to your tosh! It’s not my fault you’ve written a play, is it? My God! what a thick manuscript! What an infliction!”

Pavel Vassilyevitch glanced at the wall where the portrait of his wife was hanging and remembered that his wife had asked him to buy and bring to their summer cottage five yards of tape, a pound of cheese, and some tooth-powder.

“I hope I’ve not lost the pattern of that tape,” he thought, “where did I put it? I believe it’s in my blue reefer jacket.... Those wretched flies have covered her portrait with spots already, I must tell Olga to wash the glass.... She’s reading the twelfth scene, so we must soon be at the end of the first act. As though inspiration were possible in this heat and with such a mountain of flesh, too! Instead of writing plays she’d much better eat cold vinegar hash and sleep in a cellar. . . .”

“You don’t think that monologue’s a little too long?” the lady asked suddenly, raising her eyes.

Pavel Vassilyevitch had not heard the monologue, and said in a voice as guilty as though not the lady but he had written that monologue:

“No, no, not at all. It’s very nice. . . .”

The lady beamed with happiness and continued reading:

ANNA: You are consumed by analysis. Too early you have ceased to live in the heart and have put your faith in the intellect.

VALENTIN: What do you mean by the heart? That is a concept of anatomy. As a conventional term for what are called the feelings, I do not admit it.

ANNA
(confused)
: And love? Surely that is not merely a product of the association of ideas? Tell me frankly, have you ever loved?

VALENTIN
(bitterly)
: Let us not touch on old wounds not yet healed.
(A pause.)
What are you thinking of?

ANNA: I believe you are unhappy.

During the sixteenth scene Pavel Vassilyevitch yawned, and accidently made with his teeth the sound dogs make when they catch a fly. He was dismayed at this unseemly sound, and to cover it assumed an expression of rapt attention.

“Scene seventeen! When will it end?” he thought. “Oh, my God! If this torture is prolonged another ten minutes I shall shout for the police. It’s insufferable.”

But at last the lady began reading more loudly and more rapidly, and finally raising her voice she read
“Curtain.”

Pavel Vassilyevitch uttered a faint sigh and was about to get up, but the lady promptly turned the page and went on reading.

ACT II. --
Scene, a village street. On right, School. On left, Hospital.
Villagers,
male and female, sitting on the hospital steps.

“Excuse me,” Pavel Vassilyevitch broke in, “how many acts are there?”

“Five,” answered the lady, and at once, as though fearing her audience might escape her, she went on rapidly.

VALENTIN
is looking out of the schoolhouse window. In the background
Villagers
can be seen taking their goods to the Inn.

Like a man condemned to be executed and convinced of the impossibility of a reprieve, Pavel Vassilyevitch gave up expecting the end, abandoned all hope, and simply tried to prevent his eyes from closing, and to retain an expression of attention on his face.... The future when the lady would finish her play and depart seemed to him so remote that he did not even think of it.

“Trooo--too--too--too . . .” the lady’s voice sounded in his ears. “Troo--too--too... sh--sh--sh--sh . . .”

“I forgot to take my soda,” he thought. “What am I thinking about? Oh -- my soda.... Most likely I shall have a bilious attack.... It’s extraordinary, Smirnovsky swills vodka all day long and yet he never has a bilious attack.... There’s a bird settled on the window... a sparrow. . . .”

Pavel Vassilyevitch made an effort to unglue his strained and closing eyelids, yawned without opening his mouth, and stared at Mme. Murashkin. She grew misty and swayed before his eyes, turned into a triangle and her head pressed against the ceiling....

VALENTIN No, let me depart.

ANNA
(in dismay)
: Why?

VALENTIN
(aside)
: She has turned pale!
(To her)
Do not force me to explain. Sooner would I die than you should know the reason.

ANNA
(after a pause)
: You cannot go away....

The lady began to swell, swelled to an immense size, and melted into the dingy atmosphere of the study -- only her moving mouth was visible; then she suddenly dwindled to the size of a bottle, swayed from side to side, and with the table retreated to the further end of the room...

VALENTIN
(holding
ANNA
in his arms)
: You have given me new life! You have shown me an object to live for! You have renewed me as the Spring rain renews the awakened earth! But... it is too late, too late! The ill that gnaws at my heart is beyond cure....

Pavel Vassilyevitch started and with dim and smarting eyes stared at the reading lady; for a minute he gazed fixedly as though understanding nothing....

SCENE XI. --
The same. The
BARON
and the
POLICE INSPECTOR
with assistants.

VALENTIN: Take me!

ANNA: I am his! Take me too! Yes, take me too! I love him, I love him more than life!

BARON: Anna Sergyevna, you forget that you are ruining your father....

The lady began swelling again.... Looking round him wildly Pavel Vassilyevitch got up, yelled in a deep, unnatural voice, snatched from the table a heavy paper-weight, and beside himself, brought it down with all his force on the authoress’s head....

* * * * * *

“Give me in charge, I’ve killed her!” he said to the maidservant who ran in, a minute later.

The jury acquitted him.

NOTES

The Cause
: radical literary periodical published in St. Petersburg

Censor: all literature in Russia had to pass the censor

kammer junker
: aristocratic land-owner

A TRANSGRESSION

Translated by Constance Garnett 1887

A COLLEGIATE assessor called Miguev stopped at a telegraph-post in the course of his evening walk and heaved a deep sigh. A week before, as he was returning home from his evening walk, he had been overtaken at that very spot by his former housemaid, Agnia, who said to him viciously:

“Wait a bit! I’ll cook you such a crab that’ll teach you to ruin innocent girls! I’ll leave the baby at your door, and I’ll have the law of you, and I’ll tell your wife, too. . . .”

And she demanded that he should put five thousand roubles into the bank in her name. Miguev remembered it, heaved a sigh, and once more reproached himself with heartfelt repentance for the momentary infatuation which had caused him so much worry and misery.

When he reached his bungalow, he sat down to rest on the doorstep. It was just ten o’clock, and a bit of the moon peeped out from behind the clouds. There was not a soul in the street nor near the bungalows; elderly summer visitors were already going to bed, while young ones were walking in the wood. Feeling in both his pockets for a match to light his cigarette, Miguev brought his elbow into contact with something soft. He looked idly at his right elbow, and his face was instantly contorted by a look of as much horror as though he had seen a snake beside him. On the step at the very door lay a bundle. Something oblong in shape was wrapped up in something -- judging by the feel of it, a wadded quilt. One end of the bundle was a little open, and the collegiate assessor, putting in his hand, felt something damp and warm. He leaped on to his feet in horror, and looked about him like a criminal trying to escape from his warders....

“She has left it!” he muttered wrathfully through his teeth, clenching his fists. “Here it lies.... Here lies my transgression! O Lord!”

He was numb with terror, anger, and shame. . . What was he to do now? What would his wife say if she found out? What would his colleagues at the office say? His Excellency would be sure to dig him in the ribs, guffaw, and say: “I congratulate you!... He-he-he! Though your beard is gray, your heart is gay.... You are a rogue, Semyon Erastovitch!” The whole colony of summer visitors would know his secret now, and probably the respectable mothers of families would shut their doors to him. Such incidents always get into the papers, and the humble name of Miguev would be published all over Russia....

The middle window of the bungalow was open and he could distinctly hear his wife, Anna Filippovna, laying the table for supper; in the yard close to the gate Yermolay, the porter, was plaintively strumming on the balalaika. The baby had only to wake up and begin to cry, and the secret would be discovered. Miguev was conscious of an overwhelming desire to make haste.

“Haste, haste! . . .” he muttered, “this minute, before anyone sees. I’ll carry it away and lay it on somebody’s doorstep. . . .”

Miguev took the bundle in one hand and quietly, with a deliberate step to avoid awakening suspicion, went down the street....

“A wonderfully nasty position!” he reflected, trying to assume an air of unconcern. “A collegiate assessor walking down the street with a baby! Good heavens! if anyone sees me and understands the position, I am done for.... I’d better put it on this doorstep.... No, stay, the windows are open and perhaps someone is looking. Where shall I put it? I know! I’ll take it to the merchant Myelkin’s.. .. Merchants are rich people and tenderhearted; very likely they will say thank you and adopt it.”

And Miguev made up his mind to take the baby to Myelkin’s, although the merchant’s villa was in the furthest street, close to the river.

“If only it does not begin screaming or wriggle out of the bundle,” thought the collegiate assessor. “This is indeed a pleasant surprise! Here I am carrying a human being under my arm as though it were a portfolio. A human being, alive, with soul, with feelings like anyone else.... If by good luck the Myelkins adopt him, he may turn out somebody.... Maybe he will become a professor, a great general, an author.... Anything may happen! Now I am carrying him under my arm like a bundle of rubbish, and perhaps in thirty or forty years I may not dare to sit down in his presence....

As Miguev was walking along a narrow, deserted alley, beside a long row of fences, in the thick black shade of the lime trees, it suddenly struck him that he was doing something very cruel and criminal.

“How mean it is really!” he thought. “So mean that one can’t imagine anything meaner.... Why are we shifting this poor baby from door to door? It’s not its fault that it’s been born. It’s done us no harm. We are scoundrels.... We take our pleasure, and the innocent babies have to pay the penalty. Only to think of all this wretched business! I’ve done wrong and the child has a cruel fate before it. If I lay it at the Myelkins’ door, they’ll send it to the foundling hospital, and there it will grow up among strangers, in mechanical routine,... no love, no petting, no spoiling.... And then he’ll be apprenticed to a shoemaker,... he’ll take to drink, will learn to use filthy language, will go hungry. A shoemaker! and he the son of a collegiate assessor, of good family.... He is my flesh and blood,... “

Miguev came out of the shade of the lime trees into the bright moonlight of the open road, and opening the bundle, he looked at the baby.

“Asleep!” he murmured. “You little rascal! why, you’ve an aquiline nose like your father’s.... He sleeps and doesn’t feel that it’s his own father looking at him!... It’s a drama, my boy. . . Well, well, you must forgive me. Forgive me, old boy.... It seems it’s your fate. . . .”

The collegiate assessor blinked and felt a spasm running down his cheeks.... He wrapped up the baby, put him under his arm, and strode on. All the way to the Myelkins’ villa social questions were swarming in his brain and conscience was gnawing in his bosom.

“If I were a decent, honest man, he thought, “I should damn everything, go with this baby to Anna Filippovna, fall on my knees before her, and say: ‘Forgive me! I have sinned! Torture me, but we won’t ruin an innocent child. We have no children; let us adopt him!” She’s a good sort, she’d consent.... And then my child would be with me.... Ech!”

He reached the Myelkins’ villa and stood still hesitating. He imagined himself in the parlor at home, sitting reading the paper while a little boy with an aquiline nose played with the tassels of his dressing gown. At the same time visions forced themselves on his brain of his winking colleagues, and of his Excellency digging him in the ribs and guffawing.... Besides the pricking of his conscience, there was something warm, sad, and tender in his heart....

Cautiously the collegiate assessor laid the baby on the verandah step and waved his hand. Again he felt a spasm run over his face....

“Forgive me, old fellow! I am a scoundrel, he muttered. “Don’t remember evil against me.”

He stepped back, but immediately cleared his throat resolutely and said:

“Oh, come what will! Damn it all! I’ll take him, and let people say what they like!”

Miguev took the baby and strode rapidly back.

“Let them say what they like,” he thought. “I’ll go at once, fall on my knees, and say: ‘Anna Filippovna!’ Anna is a good sort, she’ll understand.... And we’ll bring him up.... If it’s a boy we’ll call him Vladimir, and if it’s a girl we’ll call her Anna! Anyway, it will be a comfort in our old age.”

And he did as he determined. Weeping and almost faint with shame and terror, full of hope and vague rapture, he went into his bungalow, went up to his wife, and fell on his knees before her.

“Anna Filippovna!” he said with a sob, and he laid the baby on the floor. “Hear me before you punish.... I have sinned! This is my child.... You remember Agnia? Well, it was the devil drove me to it. . . .”

And, almost unconscious with shame and terror, he jumped up without waiting for an answer, and ran out into the open air as though he had received a thrashing....

“I’ll stay here outside till she calls me,” he thought. “I’ll give her time to recover, and to think it over. . . .”

The porter Yermolay passed him with his balalaika, glanced at him and shrugged his shoulders. A minute later he passed him again, and again he shrugged his shoulders.

“Here’s a go! Did you ever!” he muttered grinning. “Aksinya, the washer-woman, was here just now, Semyon Erastovitch. The silly woman put her baby down on the steps here, and while she was indoors with me, someone took and carried off the baby.... Who’d have thought it!”

“What? What are you saying?” shouted Miguev at the top of his voice.

Yermolay, interpreting his master’s wrath in his own fashion, scratched his head and heaved a sigh.

“I am sorry, Semyon Erastovitch,” he said, “but it’s the summer holidays,... one can’t get on without... without a woman, I mean. . . .”

And glancing at his master’s eyes glaring at him with anger and astonishment, he cleared his throat guiltily and went on:

“It’s a sin, of course, but there -- what is one to do?. . . You’ve forbidden us to have strangers in the house, I know, but we’ve none of our own now. When Agnia was here I had no women to see me, for I had one at home; but now, you can see for yourself, sir,... one can’t help having strangers. In Agnia’s time, of course, there was nothing irregular, because. . .”

“Be off, you scoundrel!” Miguev shouted at him, stamping, and he went back into the room.

Anna Filippovna, amazed and wrathful, was sitting as before, her tear-stained eyes fixed on the baby....

“There! there!” Miguev muttered with a pale face, twisting his lips into a smile. “It was a joke.... It’s not my baby,... it’s the washer-woman’s!... I... I was joking.... Take it to the porter.”

NOTES

collegiate assessor: Rank 8 (of 14) on the Russian civil service tables