Delphi Complete Works of Anton Chekhov (Illustrated) (74 page)

“Blockhead!” the prince filtered through his teeth, looking after him. “It’s wonderful how disgusting it sometimes is to see satisfied faces. A stupid, animal feeling due to hunger, I expect.... What was I saying? Oh, yes, about going into the Service,... I should be ashamed to take the salary, and yet, to tell the truth, it is stupid. If one looks at it from a broader point of view, more seriously, I am eating what isn’t mine now. Am I not? But why am I not ashamed of that.... It is a case of habit, I suppose... and not being able to realize one’s true position.... But that position is most likely awful. . .”

I looked at him, wondering if the prince were showing off. But his face was mild and his eyes were mournfully following the movements of the chestnut horse racing away, as though his happiness were racing away with it.

Apparently he was in that mood of irritation and sadness when women weep quietly for no reason, and men feel a craving to complain of themselves, of life, of God....

When I got out of the chaise at the gates of the house the prince said to me:

“A man once said, wanting to annoy me, that I have the face of a cardsharper. I have noticed that cardsharpers are usually dark. Do you know, it seems that if I really had been born a cardsharper I should have remained a decent person to the day of my death, for I should never have had the boldness to do wrong. I tell you frankly I have had the chance once in my life of getting rich if I had told a lie, a lie to myself and one woman... and one other person whom I know would have forgiven me for lying; I should have put into my pocket a million. But I could not. I hadn’t the pluck!”

From the gates we had to go to the house through the copse by a long road, level as a ruler, and planted on each side with thick, lopped lilacs. The house looked somewhat heavy, tasteless, like a façade on the stage. It rose clumsily out of a mass of greenery, and caught the eye like a great stone thrown on the velvety turf. At the chief entrance I was met by a fat old footman in a green swallow-tail coat and big silver-rimmed spectacles; without making any announcement, only looking contemptuously at my dusty figure, he showed me in. As I mounted the soft carpeted stairs there was, for some reason, a strong smell of india-rubber. At the top I was enveloped in an atmosphere found only in museums, in signorial mansions and old-fashioned merchant houses; it seemed like the smell of something long past, which had once lived and died and had left its soul in the rooms. I passed through three or four rooms on my way from the entry to the drawing-room. I remember bright yellow, shining floors, lustres wrapped in stiff muslin, narrow, striped rugs which stretched not straight from door to door, as they usually do, but along the walls, so that not venturing to touch the bright floor with my muddy boots I had to describe a rectangle in each room. In the drawing-room, where the footman left me, stood old-fashioned ancestral furniture in white covers, shrouded in twilight. It looked surly and elderly, and, as though out of respect for its repose, not a sound was audible.

Even the clock was silent... it seemed as though the Princess Tarakanov had fallen asleep in the golden frame, and the water and the rats were still and motionless through magic. The daylight, afraid of disturbing the universal tranquillity, scarcely pierced through the lowered blinds, and lay on the soft rugs in pale, slumbering streaks.

Three minutes passed and a big, elderly woman in black, with her cheek bandaged up, walked noiselessly into the drawing-room. She bowed to me and pulled up the blinds. At once, enveloped in the bright sunlight, the rats and water in the picture came to life and movement, Princess Tarakanov was awakened, and the old chairs frowned gloomily.

“Her honour will be here in a minute, sir . . .” sighed the old lady, frowning too.

A few more minutes of waiting and I saw Nadyezhda Lvovna. What struck me first of all was that she certainly was ugly, short, scraggy, and round-shouldered. Her thick, chestnut hair was magnificent; her face, pure and with a look of culture in it, was aglow with youth; there was a clear and intelligent expression in her eyes; but the whole charm of her head was lost through the thickness of her lips and the over-acute facial angle.

I mentioned my name, and announced the object of my visit.

“I really don’t know what I am to say!” she said, in hesitation, dropping her eyes and smiling. “I don’t like to refuse, and at the same time. . . .”

“Do, please,” I begged.

Nadyezhda Lvovna looked at me and laughed. I laughed too. She was probably amused by what Grontovsky had so enjoyed -- that is, the right of giving or withholding permission; my visit suddenly struck me as queer and strange.

“I don’t like to break the long-established rules,” said Madame Kandurin. “Shooting has been forbidden on our estate for the last six years. No!” she shook her head resolutely. “Excuse me, I must refuse you. If I allow you I must allow others. I don’t like unfairness. Either let all or no one.”

“I am sorry!” I sighed. “It’s all the sadder because we have come more than ten miles. I am not alone,” I added, “Prince Sergey Ivanitch is with me.”

I uttered the prince’s name with no
arrière pensée,
not prompted by any special motive or aim; I simply blurted it out without thinking, in the simplicity of my heart. Hearing the familiar name Madame Kandurin started, and bent a prolonged gaze upon me. I noticed her nose turn pale.

“That makes no difference . . .” she said, dropping her eyes.

As I talked to her I stood at the window that looked out on the shrubbery. I could see the whole shrubbery with the avenues and the ponds and the road by which I had come. At the end of the road, beyond the gates, the back of our chaise made a dark patch. Near the gate, with his back to the house, the prince was standing with his legs apart, talking to the lanky Grontovsky.

Madame Kandurin had been standing all the time at the other window. She looked from time to time towards the shrubbery, and from the moment I mentioned the prince’s name she did not turn away from the window.

“Excuse me,” she said, screwing up her eyes as she looked towards the road and the gate, “but it would be unfair to allow you only to shoot.... And, besides, what pleasure is there in shooting birds? What’s it for? Are they in your way?”

A solitary life, immured within four walls, with its indoor twilight and heavy smell of decaying furniture, disposes people to sentimentality. Madame Kandurin’s idea did her credit, but I could not resist saying:

“If one takes that line one ought to go barefoot. Boots are made out of the leather of slaughtered animals.”

“One must distinguish between a necessity and a caprice,” Madame Kandurin answered in a toneless voice.

She had by now recognized the prince, and did not take her eyes off his figure. It is hard to describe the delight and the suffering with which her ugly face was radiant! Her eyes were smiling and shining, her lips were quivering and laughing, while her face craned closer to the panes. Keeping hold of a flower-pot with both hands, with bated breath and with one foot slightly lifted, she reminded me of a dog pointing and waiting with passionate impatience for “Fetch it!”

I looked at her and at the prince who could not tell a lie once in his life, and I felt angry and bitter against truth and falsehood, which play such an elemental part in the personal happiness of men.

The prince started suddenly, took aim and fired. A hawk, flying over him, fluttered its wings and flew like an arrow far away.

“He aimed too high!” I said. “And so, Nadyezhda Lvovna,” I sighed, moving away from the window, “you will not permit . . .” -- Madame Kandurin was silent.

“I have the honour to take my leave,” I said, “and I beg you to forgive my disturbing you. . .”

Madame Kandurin would have turned facing me, and had already moved through a quarter of the angle, when she suddenly hid her face behind the hangings, as though she felt tears in her eyes that she wanted to conceal.

“Good-bye.... Forgive me . . .” she said softly.

I bowed to her back, and strode away across the bright yellow floors, no longer keeping to the carpet. I was glad to get away from this little domain of gilded boredom and sadness, and I hastened as though anxious to shake off a heavy, fantastic dream with its twilight, its enchanted princess, its lustres....

At the front door a maidservant overtook me and thrust a note into my hand: “Shooting is permitted on showing this. N. K.,” I read.

NOTES

comme il faut
: proper

ylang-ylang: an exotic perfume with a heavy, sweat scent

fly agaric: a mushroom

Zemstvo: a district council with locally elected members

arrière pensée
: afterthought

A TRIPPING TONGUE

Translated by Constance Garnett 1886

NATALYA MIHALOVNA, a young married lady who had arrived in the morning from Yalta, was having her dinner, and in a never-ceasing flow of babble was telling her husband of all the charms of the Crimea. Her husband, delighted, gazed tenderly at her enthusiastic face, listened, and from time to time put in a question.

“But they say living is dreadfully expensive there?” he asked, among other things.

“Well, what shall I say? To my thinking this talk of its being so expensive is exaggerated, hubby. The devil is not as black as he is painted. Yulia Petrovna and I, for instance, had very decent and comfortable rooms for twenty roubles a day. Everything depends on knowing how to do things, my dear. Of course if you want to go up into the mountains... to Aie-Petri for instance... if you take a horse, a guide, then of course it does come to something. It’s awful what it comes to! But, Vassitchka, the mountains there! Imagine high, high mountains, a thousand times higher than the church.... At the top -- mist, mist, mist.... At the bottom -- enormous stones, stones, stones.... And pines.... Ah, I can’t bear to think of it!”

“By the way, I read about those Tatar guides there, in some magazine while you were away... . such abominable stories! Tell me is there really anything out of the way about them?”

Natalya Mihalovna made a little disdainful grimace and shook her head.

“Just ordinary Tatars, nothing special . . .” she said, “though indeed I only had a glimpse of them in the distance. They were pointed out to me, but I did not take much notice of them. You know, hubby, I always had a prejudice against all such Circassians, Greeks... Moors!”

“They are said to be terrible Don Juans.”

“Perhaps! There are shameless creatures who... .”

Natalya Mihalovna suddenly jumped up from her chair, as though she had thought of something dreadful; for half a minute she looked with frightened eyes at her husband and said, accentuating each word:

“Vassitchka, I say, the im-mo-ral women there are in the world! Ah, how immoral! And it’s not as though they were working-class or middle-class people, but aristocratic ladies, priding themselves on their
bon-ton!
It was simply awful, I could not believe my own eyes! I shall remember it as long as I live! To think that people can forget themselves to such a point as... ach, Vassitchka, I don’t like to speak of it! Take my companion, Yulia Petrovna, for example.... Such a good husband, two children... she moves in a decent circle, always poses as a saint -- and all at once, would you believe it.... Only, hubby, of course this is
entre nous
.... Give me your word of honour you won’t tell a soul?”

“What next! Of course I won’t tell.”

“Honour bright? Mind now! I trust you. . . .”

The little lady put down her fork, assumed a mysterious air, and whispered:

“Imagine a thing like this.... That Yulia Petrovna rode up into the mountains... . It was glorious weather! She rode on ahead with her guide, I was a little behind. We had ridden two or three miles, all at once, only fancy, Vassitchka, Yulia cried out and clutched at her bosom. Her Tatar put his arm round her waist or she would have fallen off the saddle.... I rode up to her with my guide.... ‘What is it? What is the matter?’ ‘Oh,’ she cried, ‘I am dying! I feel faint! I can’t go any further’ Fancy my alarm! ‘Let us go back then,’ I said. ‘No,
Natalie,
’ she said, ‘I can’t go back! I shall die of pain if I move another step! I have spasms.’ And she prayed and besought my Suleiman and me to ride back to the town and fetch her some of her drops which always do her good.”

“Stay.... I don’t quite understand you,” muttered the husband, scratching his forehead. “You said just now that you had only seen those Tatars from a distance, and now you are talking of some Suleiman.”

“There, you are finding fault again,” the lady pouted, not in the least disconcerted. “ I can’t endure suspiciousness! I can’t endure it! It’s stupid, stupid!”

“I am not finding fault, but... why say what is not true? If you rode about with Tatars, so be it, God bless you, but... why shuffle about it?”

“H’m!... you are a queer one!” cried the lady, revolted. “He is jealous of Suleiman! as though one could ride up into the mountains without a guide! I should like to see you do it! If you don’t know the ways there, if you don’t understand, you had better hold your tongue! Yes, hold your tongue. You can’t take a step there without a guide.”

“So it seems!”

“None of your silly grins, if you please! I am not a Yulia.... I don’t justify her but I... ! Though I don’t pose as a saint, I don’t forget myself to that degree. My Suleiman never overstepped the limits.... No-o! Mametkul used to be sitting at Yulia’s all day long, but in my room as soon as it struck eleven: ‘Suleiman, march! Off you go!’ And my foolish Tatar boy would depart. I made him mind his p’s and q’s, hubby! As soon as he began grumbling about money or anything, I would say ‘How? Wha-at? Wha-a-a-t?’ And his heart would be in his mouth directly.... Ha-ha-ha! His eyes, you know, Vassitchka, were as black, as black, like coals, such an amusing little Tatar face, so funny and silly! I kept him in order, didn’t I just!”

“I can fancy . . .” mumbled her husband, rolling up pellets of bread.

“That’s stupid, Vassitchka! I know what is in your mind! I know what you are thinking... But I assure you even when we were on our expeditions I never let him overstep the limits. For instance, if we rode to the mountains or to the U-Chan-Su waterfall, I would always say to him, ‘Suleiman, ride behind! Do you hear!’ And he always rode behind, poor boy.... Even when we... even at the most dramatic moments I would say to him, ‘Still, you must not forget that you are only a Tatar and I am the wife of a civil councillor!’ Ha-ha. . . .”

The little lady laughed, then, looking round her quickly and assuming an alarmed expression, whispered:

But Yulia! Oh, that Yulia! I quite see, Vassitchka, there is no reason why one shouldn’t have a little fun, a little rest from the emptiness of conventional life! That’s all right, have your fling by all means -- no one will blame you, but to take the thing seriously, to get up scenes... no, say what you like, I cannot understand that! Just fancy, she was jealous! Wasn’t that silly? One day Mametkul, her
grande passion,
came to see her... she was not at home.... Well, I asked him into my room... there was conversation, one thing and another... they’re awfully amusing, you know! The evening passed without our noticing it.... All at once Yulia rushed in.... She flew at me and at Mametkul -- made such a scene... fi! I can’t understand that sort of thing, Vassitchka.”

Vassitchka cleared his throat, frowned, and walked up and down the room.

“You had a gay time there, I must say,” he growled with a disdainful smile.

“How stu-upid that is!” cried Natalya Mihalovna, offended. “I know what you are thinking about! You always have such horrid ideas! I won’t tell you anything! No, I won’t!”

The lady pouted and said no more.

NOTES

bon-ton
: good style

entre nous
: between us

civil councillor: Rank 5 in the Civil Service, and entitled to be called “Your Excellency”

grande passion
: great passion