The Lady With the Little Dog and Other Stories, 1896-1904

by Anton Chekhov

  Blushing, laughing and excited to the point of tears, she daydreamed aloud about her life at Dubechnya, about how interesting it would be. And I envied her. March wasn’t far away, the days were drawing out, thawing snow dripped from the roofs at midday in the bright sun and the smell of spring was in the air. I too longed for the country.

  When she said that she was moving to Dubechnya I immediately saw myself left alone in the town, and I felt jealous of her book cupboard and her farming.

  I didn’t know a thing about farming and I had no love for it. I almost told her that farming was a form of slavery, but I remembered my father having said something of the sort more than once, so I remained silent.

  Lent began. Viktor Ivanych, the engineer, whose existence I had just about forgotten, arrived from St Petersburg quite unexpectedly, without even sending a telegram beforehand. When I arrived – in the evening, as usual – there he was, pacing the drawing-room and talking. He had just washed, and with his hair cut short he looked about ten years younger. His daughter was kneeling by his trunks, taking out boxes, scent bottles and books and handing them to Pavel, one of the male servants. When I saw the engineer I couldn’t help taking a step backwards, but he stretched both hands out to me and revealed his firm, white, coachman’s teeth as he smiled and said, ‘So it’s him! Here he is! Delighted to see you, Mr Painter! Masha’s told me everything; she’s been praising you to the skies. I understand you and heartily approve of what you’re doing.’

  He took me by the arm and continued: ‘Being an honest workman is a sight more clear-headed and decent than using up reams of paper and wearing a ribbon in your hat. I used to work in Belgium myself, with these hands you see here, then I was an engine-driver for two years.’

  He wore a short jacket and comfortable house-slippers, and he walked with a slight roll, as if he were suffering from gout; he kept rubbing his hands. He hummed, purred softly and squeezed himself from the sheer pleasure of being home again and having taken his beloved shower.

  ‘There’s no denying it,’ he told me over supper, ‘there’s no denying it. You are all nice, charming people, but as soon as you try to do any physical work or look after the peasants you end up religious fanatics. Why is it? Now, don’t deny it, you belong to some religious sect, don’t you? You don’t drink vodka, eh? What’s that if it isn’t belonging to some sect?’

  Just to please him I drank some vodka, and some wine too. We tried different cheeses, sausages, pâtés, pickles and various savouries which the engineer had brought with him, and the wines that had arrived while he was abroad. The wines were excellent. Somehow he managed to bring in his wines and cigars duty-free. Someone sent him caviare and smoked sturgeon for nothing; he paid no rent for the flat since the landlord supplied paraffin to the railway. The general impression he and his daughter gave me was that all the best things in life were theirs for the asking and they received them free of charge.

  I went on visiting them, but not so enthusiastically as before. The engineer cramped my style and I always felt uncomfortable when he was around. I could not stand those clear, innocent eyes, and his offensive remarks were very tiresome. I was irked by the thought too that only recently I had been under the command of that well-fed, red-faced man and that he had been dreadfully rude to me. True, he put his arm round my waist now, gave me friendly slaps on the shoulder and approved of my way of life, but I sensed that he still despised me for being a mediocrity and he only put up with me for his daughter’s sake. I could no longer laugh or say what I wanted, so I became stand-offish, and I was always expecting him to address me as a servant, like Pavel. How my petty provincial pride suffered! I, one of the working masses, a house-painter, visited the rich almost every day, people who lived in a different world, whom the whole town looked on as foreigners. Every day I drank expensive wines at their houses and ate exotic food – my conscience would not come to terms with that! On my way to their place I tried to look gloomy and avoided passers-by and scowled at them as if I really did belong to some religious sect. But when I left the engineer’s I was ashamed I had wined and dined so well.

  Most of all, I was scared of falling in love. Whether I was walking down the street, working, talking to my workmates, all I could think of was going to see Mariya Viktorovna in the evening, and I would imagine her voice, her laughter, her walk. Before each visit I would stand for a long time in front of Nanny’s crooked looking-glass, tying my tie. My woollen suit repelled me. I was going through hell and at the same time I despised myself for taking such trivial things so seriously. When she called out from another room to say that she was not dressed yet and asked me to wait, I could hear her putting on her clothes. This disturbed me and I felt as though the floor were sinking under me. Whenever I saw a woman in the street, even far off, I could not help making comparisons, and then all our women and girls seemed vulgar, ridiculously dressed and without poise. These comparisons aroused the pride in me. Mariya Viktorovna was the best of the lot! And at night I dreamed of both of us.

  Once, at supper, both of us, together with the engineer, polished off a whole lobster. Back home I remembered the engineer twice calling me ‘My dear young man!’ over supper and I realized that they were spoiling me like a huge, wretched stray dog; that they were only amusing themselves with me; and that they would drive me away like a dog when they were bored with me. I was ashamed and hurt – so hurt, I was close to tears, as if someone had insulted me. I looked up at the sky and vowed to put an end to it all.

  Next day I didn’t go to the Dolzhikovs’. Late that evening (it was quite dark and raining) I strolled along Great Dvoryansky Street looking at the windows. At the Azhogins everyone was in bed – only one light burnt in one of the windows right at the end of the house – that was old Mrs Azhogin embroidering by the light of three candles and imagining she was carrying on the battle against superstition. Our house was dark, but over the road, at the Dolzhikovs’, the windows were bright, though I couldn’t see inside for the flowers and curtains. I continued to walk up and down the street and was drenched by the cold March rain. I heard Father returning from the club; he knocked on the gate and a minute later a light appeared at one of the windows and I saw my sister hurrying with a lamp and smoothing her thick hair with one hand as she went. Then Father paced the drawing-room, talking and rubbing his hands together, while my sister sat motionless in an armchair thinking and not listening to him.

  But then they left the room and the light went out. I looked round at the engineer’s house – it was as dark as a well there now. In the gloom and the rain I felt desperately lonely, left to the mercy of fate. I felt that in comparison with my loneliness, my present sufferings, with what lay in store for me, how trivial everything was that I had ever done or wished for, thought or spoken of. Alas, the actions and thoughts of living beings are not nearly as important as their sorrows! Without knowing exactly what I was doing, I tugged as hard as I could at the bell on the Dolzhikovs’ gate – and broke it. I ran off in terror down the street like a naughty child, convinced they would come out at once and recognize me. When I stopped to catch my breath at the end of the street all I could hear was falling rain and a nightwatchman, far away, banging on his iron sheet.

  For a whole week I stayed away from the Dolzhikovs’. I sold my woollen suit. There was no painting work about and once again I was half-starving, earning ten to twelve copecks a day where I could by doing heavy, nasty work. Wallowing up to my knees in cold mud and using all my strength, I tried to suppress any memories, as if taking revenge on myself for all those cheeses and tinned delicacies the engineer had treated me to. But no sooner did I climb into bed, hungry and wet, than my sinful imagination began to conjure up wonderful, seductive pictures and to my amazement I realized that I was in love, passionately so, and I would drop into a sound, healthy sleep, feeling that all the penal servitude was only making my body stronger.

  One evening it snowed – quite out of season – and the wind blew from the north as if winte
r had returned. When I was home from work I found Mariya Viktorovna sitting in my room. She wore her fur coat, with her hands in a muff.

  ‘Why don’t you come any more?’ she asked, raising her clever, bright eyes. I was overcome with joy and stood stiffly in front of her, just as I had done before Father when he was about to hit me. She looked into my face and I could see by her eyes that she understood why I was overcome.

  ‘Why don’t you come any more?’ she repeated. ‘Well, as you don’t want to, I’ve come to you instead.’

  She stood up and came close to me.

  ‘Don’t leave me,’ she said, her eyes filling with tears. ‘I’m lonely, so terribly lonely!’

  She began to cry and hid her face in her muff. ‘I’m lonely. Life is so dreadful, really dreadful, and besides you I’ve no one in the whole wide world. Don’t leave me!’

  She searched for a handkerchief to dry her eyes and gave me a smile. We said nothing for some time, then I embraced her and kissed her, scratching my cheek on her hatpin until it bled. And we started talking as if we had been close to one another for a long, long time.

  X

  Two days later she sent me to Dubechnya, and words could not describe how delighted I was. As I walked to the station and later, as I sat in the train, I laughed for no reason and people thought I was drunk. It was snowing and there was frost in the mornings, but the roads were turning brown, and cawing rooks circled above them.

  The first thing I wanted was to arrange accommodation for Masha and myself in the outbuilding, opposite Mrs Cheprakov’s. But it turned out to have long been the home of pigeons and ducks and it would have been impossible to clean it out without destroying a large number of nests. Whether we liked it or not, we had to move into the bleak rooms with Venetian blinds in the big house. This house was called The Palace by the peasants. It had more than twenty rooms, but the only furniture was a piano and a child’s armchair in the attic. Even if Masha had brought all her furniture from the town, we could not have destroyed that bleak, empty, cold atmosphere. I chose three small rooms with windows looking onto the garden, and I was busy from dawn to dusk cleaning them, putting in new window-panes, hanging wallpaper and filling in cracks and holes in the floor. It was easy, pleasant work. Now and then I ran down to the river to see if the ice was breaking up and I kept imagining that the starlings had returned. At night, as I thought of Masha, I felt overjoyed and entranced as I listened to the scurrying rats and the wind sighing and knocking above the ceiling. It sounded as if some old house goblin was coughing up in the attic.

  The snow was deep. At the end of March there was another heavy fall, but it thawed quickly, as if by magic. The spring floods surged past and by the beginning of April the starlings were already chattering and yellow butterflies flitted around the garden. It was marvellous weather. Every day, just before evening, I went off to town to meet Masha. And how enjoyable it was walking barefoot along a road that was drying, but still soft! Halfway I would sit down and look at the town, not daring to go nearer. The sight of it disturbed me. I kept wondering how my friends would react once they heard of my love. What would Father say? The thought that my life had become so complicated that I could no longer keep it under control worried me more than anything. Life was carrying me away like a balloon – God knows where. I no longer thought about making ends meet or earning a living. I honestly can’t remember what I was thinking about.

  When Masha arrived in her carriage, I would sit next to her and we would drive off to Dubechnya, happy and free. At other times, after waiting for the sun to set, I would go home, disconsolate and bored, wondering why she hadn’t come. Then suddenly a delightful apparition would greet me at the gate or in the garden – Masha! Later it turned out that she had come by train and had walked from the station. And what a wonderful occasion this used to be! She wore a modest woollen dress and scarf and held a simple umbrella. At the same time, she was tightly corseted and slim, and she wore expensive foreign boots. This was a talented actress playing the part of a small-town housewife. We would inspect the place and try to decide what rooms we would take and plan the paths, kitchen-garden and beehives. Already we had ducks and geese that we loved because they were ours. We had clover, oats, timothy grass, buckwheat and vegetable seeds – all ready for sowing. We spent a long time examining these things and wondering what the harvest would be like. Everything that Masha told me seemed exceptionally clever and fine. This was the happiest time of my life.

  Soon after Easter we were married in our parish church at Kurilovka, the village about two miles from Dubechnya. Masha wanted everything simple. At her wish the ushers were lads from the village, and one parish clerk did all the singing. We returned from church in a small, shaky trap, which she drove. The only guest from town was my sister, to whom Masha had sent a note a couple of days before the wedding; she wore a white dress and gloves. During the ceremony she cried softly for joy, being deeply touched, and her expression was motherly, infinitely kind. Our happiness had intoxicated her and she smiled continually, as if inhaling heady fumes. Watching her during the service I realized that for her there was nothing finer in the whole world than earthly love. This was what she had always secretly longed for, timidly yet passionately. She kissed and embraced Masha. Not knowing how to express her joy she told her, ‘He’s a good man, so good!’

  Before leaving she changed into her ordinary clothes and led me into the garden to talk to me in private.

  ‘Father’s very upset you didn’t write,’ she said. ‘You should have asked for his blessing. But he’s actually very pleased with you. He says that this wedding will raise your social status and that, under Masha’s influence, you’ll take things more seriously. We only talk about you in the evenings, and yesterday he even called you “our Misail”. This gave me so much joy. It seems he has a plan of some kind and I think that he wants to show you how magnanimous he can be, by being the first to talk of a reconciliation. Most likely he’ll soon be coming to see you here.’

  Several times she quickly made the sign of the cross over me and said, ‘Well, God bless you. Be happy. Anyuta Blagovo is a very clever girl. She says that your marriage is a fresh ordeal sent by God. Yes, family life is not all bliss, there’s suffering too. You can’t avoid it.’

  Masha and I walked about two miles with her as we saw her off. On our way back we walked quietly and slowly, as if taking a rest. Masha held my arm; I felt easy at heart and I didn’t want to talk about love any more. After the wedding we had grown even closer, had become kindred spirits, and it seemed nothing could keep us apart.

  ‘Your sister is a nice person,’ Masha said, ‘but she looks as if she’s been suffering never-ending torments. Your father must be a horrible man.’

  I began telling her how my sister and I had been brought up and how our childhood had really been a meaningless ordeal. When she learnt that my father had struck me only recently she shuddered and pressed close to me.

  ‘Don’t say any more,’ she said. ‘It’s terrible.’

  And now she did not leave me. We lived in three rooms in the big house and in the evenings we bolted the door to the empty part of the house, as if some stranger we feared was living there. I would rise at the crack of dawn and immediately get down to work. I used to mend carts, lay paths in the garden, dig the flowerbeds, paint the roof of the house. When the time for sowing oats came I tried double-ploughing, harrowing. All this I did conscientiously, and did not lag behind our farm labourer. I would become exhausted; the rain and the sharp, cold wind made my face and legs burn, and at nights I dreamed of ploughed land. Working in the fields held no delights for me. I knew nothing about farming and I disliked it – probably because my ancestors had never been tillers of the soil and pure town blood ran in my veins. I loved nature dearly, the fields and meadows and the vegetable gardens. But the wet, ragged peasant turning the earth with his plough and craning his neck as he urged on his wretched horse was for me the embodiment of crude, savage, monstrous strength.
As I watched his clumsy movements I could never stop myself thinking of that long-past, legendary life, when man did not know the use of fire. Awesome bulls roaming around the peasant’s herd, horses stampeding through the village with pounding hooves – they scared the wits out of me. Any creature that was in the least large, strong and angry, whether a horned ram, a gander or a watchdog, seemed to symbolize that wild, crude strength. This prejudice was particularly strong in bad weather, when heavy clouds hung over the black plough-lands. But most of all, whenever I ploughed or sowed and two or three peasants stood watching me, I did not feel that my work was in any sense indispensable or that I was obliged to do it: I seemed to be merely amusing myself. I preferred working in the yard and I liked nothing better than painting roofs.

  I used to walk through the garden and the meadow to our mill. This was rented to Stefan, a handsome, dark-skinned, tough-looking peasant from Kurilovka, with a thick black beard. He did not like working the mill, thinking it boring and unprofitable, and he only lived there to escape from home. He was a saddle-maker and always had a pleasant smell of tar and leather about him. Not very talkative, he was lethargic and sluggish. He was always humming, always sitting on the river bank or in his doorway. Sometimes his wife and mother-in-law – both pale-faced, languid and meek creatures – would come over from Kurilovka to see him. They would bow low and call him ‘Mr Stefan Petrovich’. He would not reply with a single movement or word, but sat by himself on the river bank softly humming. An hour or so would pass in silence. Then, after whispering to each other, the mother-in-law and wife would stand up and look at him for some time, waiting for him to turn round. Then they would make low curtsies and say ‘Goodbye, Stefan Petrovich!’ in their sugary, singsong voices. And then they would leave. Taking the bundle of rolls or the shirt they had left for him, Stefan would sigh and wink in their direction.