Delphi Complete Works of Anton Chekhov (Illustrated) (358 page)

She got up and walked about the room.

“Tick-tock,” tapped the watchman. “Tick-tock, tick-tock. . . .”

“What is above all necessary is that life should pass as it were through a prism,” she said; “in other words, that life in consciousness should be analyzed into its simplest elements as into the seven primary colours, and each element must be studied separately.”

What Nina Ivanovna said further and when she went away, Nadya did not hear, as she quickly fell asleep.

May passed; June came. Nadya had grown used to being at home. Granny busied herself about the samovar, heaving deep sighs. Nina Ivanovna talked in the evenings about her philosophy; she still lived in the house like a poor relation, and had to go to Granny for every farthing. There were lots of flies in the house, and the ceilings seemed to become lower and lower. Granny and Nina Ivanovna did not go out in the streets for fear of meeting Father Andrey and Andrey Andreitch. Nadya walked about the garden and the streets, looked at the grey fences, and it seemed to her that everything in the town had grown old, was out of date and was only waiting either for the end, or for the beginning of something young and fresh. Oh, if only that new, bright life would come more quickly -- that life in which one will be able to face one’s fate boldly and directly, to know that one is right, to be light-hearted and free! And sooner or later such a life will come. The time will come when of Granny’s house, where things are so arranged that the four servants can only live in one room in filth in the basement -- the time will come when of that house not a trace will remain, and it will be forgotten, no one will remember it. And Nadya’s only entertainment was from the boys next door; when she walked about the garden they knocked on the fence and shouted in mockery: “Betrothed! Betrothed!”

A letter from Sasha arrived from Saratov. In his gay dancing handwriting he told them that his journey on the Volga had been a complete success, but that he had been taken rather ill in Saratov, had lost his voice, and had been for the last fortnight in the hospital. She knew what that meant, and she was overwhelmed with a foreboding that was like a conviction. And it vexed her that this foreboding and the thought of Sasha did not distress her so much as before. She had a passionate desire for life, longed to be in Petersburg, and her friendship with Sasha seemed now sweet but something far, far away! She did not sleep all night, and in the morning sat at the window, listening. And she did in fact hear voices below; Granny, greatly agitated, was asking questions rapidly. Then some one began crying.... When Nadya went downstairs Granny was standing in the corner, praying before the ikon and her face was tearful. A telegram lay on the table.

For some time Nadya walked up and down the room, listening to Granny’s weeping; then she picked up the telegram and read it.

It announced that the previous morning Alexandr Timofeitch, or more simply, Sasha, had died at Saratov of consumption.

Granny and Nina Ivanovna went to the church to order a memorial service, while Nadya went on walking about the rooms and thinking. She recognized clearly that her life had been turned upside down as Sasha wished; that here she was, alien, isolated, useless and that everything here was useless to her; that all the past had been torn away from her and vanished as though it had been burnt up and the ashes scattered to the winds. She went into Sasha’s room and stood there for a while.

“Good-bye, dear Sasha,” she thought, and before her mind rose the vista of a new, wide, spacious life, and that life, still obscure and full of mysteries, beckoned her and attracted her.

She went upstairs to her own room to pack, and next morning said good-bye to her family, and full of life and high spirits left the town -- as she supposed for ever.

NOTES

title: a better translation is “The Bride”

Komissarovsky school: a private school

watchman was tapping: watchmen in Russia tapped as they patrolled the grounds to let theives know that a watchman was actively on duty

homeopathy: homeopathy is a pseudoscience that treats disease by administering minute doses of drugs that in massive amounts produce symptoms in healthy individuals similar to the disease itself

Anna Karenin: the heroine of the novel by Tolstoy

vegetable soup: meatless borsch; a believer would not eat meat along with dairy products

patience: a card game

St. Peter’s Day: June 29 (Julian Calendar)

Shismatchevsky: no such painter existed

cockade on my cap: worn by civil servants in Russia

passport: Russians were required to have passports to travel within Russia

free Cossack: around the 16th century, before the Cossacks were brought under Russian control, some dissatisfied Russian peasants ran off to join the Cossacks

koumiss: kymis, fermented mare’s milk, often prescribed for victims of tuberculosis

THE FIT

Translated by John Middleton Murry 1915

I

THE medical student Mayer, and Ribnikov, a student at the Moscow school of painting, sculpture, and architecture, came one evening to their friend Vassiliev, law student, and proposed that he should go with them to S —
 
— v Street. For a long while Vassiliev did not agree, but eventually dressed himself and went with them.

Unfortunate women he knew only by hearsay and from books, and never once in his life had he been in the houses where they live. He knew there were immoral women who were forced by the pressure of disastrous circumstances — environment, bad up-bringing, poverty, and the like to sell their honour for money. They do not know pure love, have no children and no legal rights ; mothers and sisters mourn them for dead, science treats them as an evil, men are familiar with them. But notwithstanding all this they do not lose the image and likeness of God. They all acknowledge their sin and hope for salvation. They are free to avail themselves of every means of salvation. True, Society does not forgive people their past, but with God Mary of Egypt is not lower than the other saints. Whenever Vassiliev recognised an unfortunate woman in the street by her costume or her manner, or saw a picture of one in a comic paper, there came into his mind every time a story he once read somewhere : a pure and heroic young man falls in love with an unfortunate woman and asks her to be his wife, but she, considering herself unworthy of such happiness, poisons herself.

Vassiliev lived in one of the streets off the Tverskoi boulevard. When he and his friends came out of the house it was about eleven o’clock — the first snow had just fallen and all nature was under the spell of this new snow. The air smelt of snow, the snow cracked softly under foot, the earth, the roofs, the trees, the benches on the boulevards — all were soft, white, and young. Owing to this the houses had a different look from yesterday, the lamps burned brighter, the air was more transparent, the clatter of the cabs was dulled and there entered into the soul with the fresh, easy, frosty air a feeling like the white, young, feathery snow. “ To these sad shores unknowing “ the medico began to sing in a pleasant tenor, “An unknown power entices “ . . . “ Behold the mill” ... the painter’s voice took him up, “ it is now fall’n to ruin.”

“Behold the mill, it is now fall’n to ruin,” the medico repeated, raising his eyebrows and sadly shaking his head.

He was silent for a while, passed his hand over his forehead trying to recall the words, and began to sing in a loud voice and so well that the passers-by looked back.

“Here, long ago, came free, free love to me “...

All three went into a restaurant and without taking off their coats they each had two thimblefuls of vodka at the bar. Before drinking the second, Vassiliev noticed a piece of cork in his vodka, lifted the glass to his eye, looked at it for a long while with a short-sighted frown. The medico misunderstood his expression and said —

“Well, what are you staring at ? No philosophy, please. Vodka’s made to be drunk, caviare to be eaten, women to sleep with, snow to walk on. Live like a man for one evening.”

“Well, I’ve nothing to say,” said Vassiliev laughingly, “ I’m not refusing ? “

The vodka warmed his breast. He looked at his friends admiringly, admired and envied them. How balanced everything is in these healthy, strong, cheerful people. Everything in their minds and souls is smooth and rounded off. They sing, have a passion for the theatre, paint, talk continually, and drink, and they never have a headache the next day. They are romantic and dissolute, sentimental and insolent ; they can work and go on the loose and laugh at nothing and talk rubbish ; they are hot-headed, honest, heroic and as human beings not a bit worse than Vassiliev, who watches his every step and word, who is careful, cautious, and able to give the smallest trifle the dignity of a problem. And he made up his mind if only for one evening to live like his friends, to let himself go, and be free from his own control. Must he drink vodka ? He’ll drink, even if his head falls to pieces to-morrow. Must he be taken to women ? He’ll go. He’ll laugh, play the fool, and give a joking answer to disapproving passers-by.

He came out of the restaurant laughing. He liked his friends — one in a battered hat with a wide brim who aped aesthetic disorder ; the other in a sealskin cap, not very poor, with a pretence of learned Bohemia. He liked the snow, the paleness, the lamp-lights, the clear black prints which the passers’ feet left on the snow. He liked the air, and above all the transparent, tender, naive, virgin tone which can be seen in nature only twice in the year : when everything is covered in snow, on the bright days in spring, and on moonlight nights when the ice breaks on the river.

“To these sad shores unknowing,” he began to sing
sotto-vocce
, “ An unknown power entices.”

And all the way for some reason or other he and his friends had this melody on their lips. All three hummed it mechanically out of time with each other.

Vassiliev imagined how in about ten minutes he and his friends would knock at a door, how they would stealthily walk through the narrow little passages and dark rooms to the women, how he would take advantage of the dark, suddenly strike a match, and see lit up a suffering face and a guilty smile. There he will surely find a fair or a dark woman in a white night- gown with her hair loose. She will be frightened of the light, dreadfully confused and say : “Good God ! What are you doing ? Blow it out ! “ All this was frightening, but curious and novel.

II

The friends turned out of Trubnoi Square into the Grachovka and soon arrived at the street which Vassiliev knew only from hearsay. Seeing two rows of houses with brightly lighted windows and wide open doors, and hearing the gay sound of pianos and fiddles — sounds which flew out of all the doors and mingled in a strange confusion, as if somewhere in the darkness over the roof-tops an unseen orchestra were tuning, Vassiliev was bewildered and said :

“What a lot of houses ! “

“What’s that ? “ said the medico. “ There are ten times as many in London. There are a hundred thousand of these women there.”

The cabmen sat on their boxes quiet and indifferent as in other streets ; on the pavement walked the same passers-by. No one was in a hurry ; no one hid his face in his collar ; no one shook his head reproachfully. And in this indifference, in the confused sound of the pianos and fiddles, in the bright windows and wide-open doors, something very free, impudent, bold and daring could be felt. It must have been the same as this in the old times on the slave-markets, as gay and as noisy ; people looked and walked with the same indifference.

“Let’s begin right at the beginning,” said the painter.

The friends walked into a narrow little passage lighted by a single lamp with a reflector. When they opened the door a man in a black jacket rose lazily from the yellow sofa in the hall. He had an unshaven lackey’s face and sleepy eyes. The place smelt like a laundry, and of vinegar. From the hall a door led into a brightly lighted room. The medico and the painter stopped in the doorway, stretched out their necks and peeped into the room together :

“Buona sera, signore, Rigoletto — huguenote — traviata ! — “ the painter began, making a theatrical bow.

“Havanna — blackbeetlano — pistoletto! “ said the medico, pressing his hat to his heart and bowing low.

Vassiliev kept behind them. He wanted to bow theatrically too and say something silly. But he only smiled, felt awkward and ashamed, and awaited impatiently what was to follow. In the door appeared a little fair girl of seventeen or eighteen, with short hair, wearing a short blue dress with a white bow on her breast.

“What are you standing in the door for ? “ she said. “ Take off your overcoats and come into the salon.”

The medico and the painter went into the salon, still speaking Italian. Vassiliev followed them irresolutely.

“Gentlemen, take off your overcoats,” said the lackey stiffly. “ You’re not allowed in as you are.”

Besides the fair girl there was another woman in the salon, very stout and tall, with a foreign face and bare arms. She sat by the piano, with a game of patience spread on her knees. She took no notice of the guests.

“Where are the other girls ? “ asked the medico.

“They’re drinking tea,” said the fair one. “Stiepan,” she called out. “ Go and tell the girls some students have come ! “

A little later a third girl entered, in a bright red dress with blue stripes. Her face was thickly and unskilfully painted. Her forehead was hidden under her hair. She stared with dull, frightened eyes. As she came she immediately began to sing in a strong hoarse contralto. After her a fourth girl. After her a fifth.

In all this Vassiliev saw nothing new or curious. It seemed to him that he had seen before, and more than once, this salon, piano, cheap gilt mirror, the white bow, the dress with blue stripes and the stupid, indifferent faces. But of darkness, quiet, mystery, and guilty smile — of all he had expected to meet here and which frightened him — he did not see even a shadow.

Everything was commonplace, prosaic, and dull. Only one thing provoked his curiosity a little, that was the terrible, as it were intentional lack of taste, which was seen in the overmantels, the absurd pictures, the dresses and the white bow. In this lack of taste there was something characteristic and singular.

“How poor and foolish it all is ! “ thought Vassiliev. “ What is there in all this rubbish to tempt a normal man, to provoke him into committing a frightful sin, to buy a living soul for a rouble ? I can understand anyone sinning for the sake of splendour, beauty, grace, passion ; but what is there here ? What tempts people here ? But . . . it’s no good thinking ! “

“Whiskers, stand me champagne.” The fair one turned to him.

Vassiliev suddenly blushed.

“With pleasure,” he said, bowing politely. “But excuse me if I ... I don’t drink with you. I don’t drink.”

Five minutes after the friends were off to another house.

“Why did you order drinks ? “ stormed the medico. “ What a millionaire, flinging six roubles into the gutter like that for nothing at all.”

“Why shouldn’t I give her pleasure if she wants it ? “ said Vassiliev, justifying himself.

“You didn’t give her any pleasure. Madame got that. It’s Madame who tells them to ask the guests for drinks. She makes by it.”

“Behold the mill,” the painter began to sing, “Now fall’n to ruin. . . .”

When they came to another house the friends stood outside in the vestibule, but did not enter the salon. As in the first house, a figure rose up from the sofa in the hall, in a black jacket, with a sleepy lackey’s face. As he looked at this lackey, at his face and shabby jacket, Vassiliev thought : “ What must an ordinary simple Russian go through before Fate casts him up here ? Where was he before, and what was he doing ? What awaits him ? Is he married, where’s his mother, and does she know he’s a lackey here ? “ Thenceforward in every house Vassiliev involuntarily turned his attention to the lackey first of all.

In one of the houses, it seemed to be the fourth, the lackey was a dry little, puny fellow, with a chain across his waistcoat. He was reading a newspaper and took no notice of the guests at all. Glancing at his face, Vassiliev had the idea that a fellow with a face like that could steal and murder and perjure. And indeed the face was interesting : a big forehead, grey eyes, a flat little nose, small close-set teeth, and the expression on his face dull and impudent at once, like a puppy hard on a hare. Vassiliev had the thought that he would like to touch this lackey’s hair : is it rough or soft ? It must be rough like a dog’s.

III

Because he had had two glasses the painter suddenly got rather drunk, and unnaturally lively.

“Let’s go to another place,” he added, waving his hands. “ I’ll introduce you to the best ! “