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

by Anton Chekhov

  ‘The chairman of the parish council doesn’t believe in God, either,’ he went on, ‘nor does the clerk, nor the lay reader. And if they do go to church to keep the fasts it’s only so that people won’t go saying nasty things about them – and just in case there is a Day of Judgement, after all. Now they’re all talking as if the end of the world has come, because people have got slack in their ways, don’t respect their parents and so on. That’s a load of rubbish. Now, the way I see it, Mama, is that all unhappiness comes from people not having a conscience. I can see right through them, Mama, I understand. I can see if a man’s wearing a stolen shirt or not. Take someone sitting in a pub – you might think all he’s doing is just drinking tea. But tea or no tea, I can tell if he’s got a conscience. You can go around all day and not find anyone with a conscience, all because people don’t know if there’s a God or not… Well, goodbye, Mama, I wish you long life and happiness – and don’t think too badly of me.’

  Anisim bowed very low. ‘Thanks for everything, Mama,’ he added. ‘You’re a real help to the family, a right good woman and I’m very pleased with you.’

  Anisim felt deeply moved as he left the room, but he came straight back and said, ‘Samorodov’s got me mixed up in some deal: it’ll make or break me. If the worst should happen, Mama, please comfort my Papa.’

  ‘What are you on about now? Dear, dear me! God is merciful. And you, Anisim, should show that wife of yours a little affection or you’ll be turning your noses up at each other. You should both smile a bit, really!’

  ‘But she’s such a strange one…’ Anisim said with a sigh. ‘Doesn’t understand anything, never says anything. But she’s still very young, I must give her a chance to grow up a little.’

  A tall, well-fed white stallion, harnessed to a cabriolet, was already waiting at the front door.

  Old Tsybukin came running up, leapt into it with the energy of a young man and grasped the reins. Anisim exchanged kisses with Varvara, Aksinya and his brother. Lipa was standing at the front door as well, quite still, and her eyes were turned to one side, as though she had not come to see him off at all but just happened to have turned up for some mysterious reason. Anisim went over to her, barely touched her cheek with his lips and said, ‘Goodbye.’ She didn’t look at him and she smiled very strangely. Her face was trembling and everyone felt somewhat sorry for her. Anisim also leapt in and sat there with hands on hips, so convinced he was of his good looks.

  As they drove up out of the ravine, Anisim kept looking back at the village. It was a fine warm day. For the first time that year, cattle had been led out to graze and young girls and women were walking round the herd in their holiday dresses. A brown bull bellowed, rejoicing in its freedom, and pawed the earth with its front hoofs. Larks were singing everywhere – on the ground and high up above. Anisim glanced back at the graceful church, which had recently been whitewashed, and he remembered that he had prayed there five days ago. And he looked back at the school, with its green roof, at the river where he once swam or tried to catch fish, and his heart thrilled with joy. He wanted a wall suddenly to rise up out of the ground to block his path, so that he could remain there, with only the past.

  They went into the station bar and drank a glass of sherry. The old man started fumbling about in his pocket for his purse.

  ‘Drinks on me,’ Anisim said.

  The old man clapped him affectionately on the shoulder and winked at the barman, as though wanting to say, ‘See what a son I’ve got!’

  ‘Anisim, you should really stay here with us and help in the business,’ he said. ‘You’d be priceless! I’d load you with money, from head to foot, dear boy!’

  The sherry had a sourish taste and smelt of sealing-wax, but they both drank another glass.

  When the old man got back from the station, he did not recognize his younger daughter-in-law any more. The moment her husband left, Lipa changed completely and became bright and cheerful. In her bare feet, with her sleeves tucked right up to her shoulders, she washed the staircase in the hall and sang in a thin, silvery voice. And when she carried the huge tub full of dirty water outside and looked at the sun with that childish smile of hers, she was like a skylark herself.

  An old workman, who was passing the front door, shook his head and wheezed, ‘Oh yes, Grigory Petrov, that’s a fine daughter-in-law God’s blessed you with. No ordernery girl, but a real treasure!’

  V

  On 8 July (a Friday), ‘Crutchy’ Yelizarov and Lipa were coming back from their pilgrimage to the village of Kazansk, where the Festival of Our Lady of Kazan had been celebrated. Lipa’s mother, Praskovya, lagged a long way behind, as she was in poor health and short of breath. It was late afternoon.

  As he listened to Lipa, Crutchy kept making startled ‘ooh’s and ‘ah’s.

  ‘I just love jam, Ilya Makarych!’ Lipa said. ‘I like to sit in a little corner, all on my own, and just drink tea with jam in it. Or if Varvara drinks a cup with me, she tells me things that I find really touching. They’ve piles of jam, four jars in all, and they say, “Eat up, Lipa, don’t be shy.”’

  ‘Aah! Four jars!’

  ‘They live very well and give you white rolls with your tea and as much beef as you want. Yes, they live well, only it’s a bit scary there, Ilya Makarych, ooh, so scary!’

  ‘What’s scary, dear?’ Crutchy asked, as he looked back to see how far behind Praskovya was.

  ‘To begin with, as soon as the wedding was over, I got scared of Anisim Grigorych. He’d done nothing nasty to me, but I had the shivers all over, in every bone, every time he came near. At night I couldn’t sleep a wink and I kept shaking all over and prayed to God. But now it’s Aksinya I’m frightened of, Ilya Makarych. She’s all right really, always smiling. It’s only when she looks out of the window, her eyes get so angry, all green and burning – just like a sheep in its shed. Those young Khrymins are always leading her astray. “Your old man’s got a bit of land at Butyokhino, more than a hundred acres,” they tell her. “There’s sand and water, so you could build a brickworks there, Aksinya, and we’ll go halves.” Bricks are nearly twenty roubles a thousand now, could be a good thing. So yesterday Aksinya goes and tells the old man, “I want to start a brickworks at Butyokhino, I’ll be in charge myself.” She smiled when she said this, but Grigory Petrov gave her a blank look and didn’t seem at all pleased. So he says, “While I’m alive, I’m not going to start dividing everything up, we must do everything together.” But she looked daggers at him and ground her teeth… then we had pancakes, but she wouldn’t touch them!’

  ‘A-ah!’ Crutchy said in amazement. ‘Wouldn’t touch ’em!’

  ‘And you should just see the way she sleeps!’ Lipa continued. ‘She’ll doze off for half an hour, then all of a sudden she’ll jump up and start running round to see if the peasants have started a fire or stolen anything… It’s terrible being with her, Ilya Makarych! Those Khrymin sons didn’t go to bed after the wedding, but went straight off to town to bring the law on each other. And they say it’s all Aksinya’s doing. Two of the brothers promised to build her the brickyard, which made the third one mad. As the mill was shut down then for a month, my Uncle Prokhor had no work and had to go begging for scraps round people’s backyards. So I said, “Look, Uncle, until it’s open again, why don’t you go and do some ploughing or woodchopping, why bring shame on yourself like this!” So he said, “Lost the’abit of farm work I’ave, can’t do nothing, Lipa dear.”’

  They stopped by a young aspen grove for a rest and to wait until Praskovya caught them up. Yelizarov had been a jobbing carpenter for some time but, as he didn’t have a horse, he used to go round the entire district on foot and all he took with him was a little bag of bread and onions. He took long strides, swinging his arms, and it was hard to keep up with him.

  A boundary post stood at the entrance to the grove and Yelizarov tested it with his hands to see if it was sound. Then along came Praskovya, gasping for breath. Her wrinkled, perpetually
anxious face beamed with happiness. That same day she had gone to church, like the others, and then she went along to the fair and had a drink of pear kvass.4 This was so unusual for her that now she even felt – for the first time in her life – she was really enjoying herself. After they had rested, all three of them started off again together. The sun was already setting and its rays pierced the leaves and shone on the tree-trunks. They could hear loud shouting ahead – the girls of Ukleyevo had been out a long time before them but had stopped there in the grove, most probably to pick mushrooms.

  ‘Hey, me gi-irls,’ Yelizarov shouted. ‘Hey, me beauties!’

  He was answered by laughter.

  ‘Crutchy’s coming! Crutchy, you silly old fogey!’

  And their echoing voices sounded like laughter as well. Now the grove was behind them. They could already see the tops of factory chimneys and the glittering cross on the belfry. This was the village, the same one where ‘the lay reader ate all the caviare at a funeral’.

  Now they were almost home and had only to go down into that great ravine. Lipa and Praskovya, who had been walking barefoot, sat down on the grass to put their shoes on and the carpenter sat down beside them. From high up, Ukleyevo looked pretty and peaceful with its willows and white church, its little river – a view spoilt only by the factory chimneys which had been painted a nasty dark grey: they had used cheap paint to save money. On the slope on the far side they could see rye lying in stooks and sheaves, scattered all over the place as if blown around in a storm; some of the rye lay in freshly cut swathes. The oats were ready as well and shone like mother-of-pearl in the sun. It was the height of harvest-time, but that day was a rest day. The following morning, a Saturday, they would be gathering in the rye and hay, and then they would rest again on the Sunday. Every day distant thunder rumbled; it was close and humid, and rain seemed to be in the air. As they looked at the fields, the villagers only thought about one thing – God willing, they would get the harvesting done in time – and they felt cheerful, gay and anxious all at once.

  ‘Reapers cost money these days,’ Praskovya exclaimed. ‘One rouble forty a day!’

  Meanwhile more and more people kept pouring in from the fair at Kazansk. Peasant women, factory-hands wearing new caps, beggars, children… A cart would rumble past in a cloud of dust, with an unsold horse (which seemed very pleased at the fact) trotting along behind it; then came an obstinate cow, which was being dragged along by the horns; then another cart rolled past, full of drunken peasants who let their legs dangle over the sides. One old woman came past with a boy who wore a large hat and big boots; he was exhausted by the heat and the weight of the boots, which didn’t let him bend his knees, but in spite of this he kept blowing his toy trumpet for all he was worth. Even after they had reached the bottom of the ravine and turned down the main street, the trumpet could still be heard.

  ‘Those factory owners ain’t themselves at all,’ Yelizarov said. ‘Something shocking, it is! Kostyukov got mad at me. He says, “That’s a lot of wood you’ve used for the cornices.” “How come?” I says. “Only as much as was needed, Vasily Danilych. I don’t eat them planks with me porridge.” “What?” he says. “How dare you, you blockhead, you riff-raff!” Then he starts shouting away, “Don’t forget, I made a contractor out of you.” “So what?” I replies. “Before I was a carpenter, I still’ad me cup of tea every day.” And he replies, “You’re crooks, the whole lot of you…” I says nothing and thinks to meself, “Oho! I may be a crook in this world, but you’ll be doing the swindling in the next.” Next day he changes his tune: “Now don’t get mad at what I said. If I went a bit too far, it’s only because I belong to the merchants’ guild, which means I’m your superior and you shouldn’t answer back.” So I says to him, “Okay, you’re a big noise in the merchants’ guild, and I’m only a carpenter. But Saint Joseph was a carpenter as well. Our work is honest and is pleasing to God. But if you think you’re superior, then that’s all right by me, Vasily Danilych.” After this – I mean after our talk – I starts thinking to meself, “Who is superior, really? A big merchant or a carpenter?” Well, of course, it must be the carpenter, children!’

  Crutchy pondered for a moment and went on, ‘That’s how things are. It’s those what work and doesn’t give in what’s superior.’

  The sun had set and a thick, milk-white mist was rising over the river, the fences and the clearings near the factories. And now with darkness swiftly advancing and lights twinkling down below, when that mist seemed to be hiding a bottomless abyss, Lipa and her mother, who were born beggars and were resigned to staying beggars for the rest of their lives, surrendering everything except their own frightened souls to others – perhaps even they imagined, for one fleeting moment, that they mattered in that vast mysterious universe, where countless lives were being lived out, and that they had a certain strength and were better than someone else. They felt good sitting up there, high above the village and they smiled happily, forgetting that eventually they would have to go back down again.

  At last they arrived home. Reapers were sitting on the ground by the gates close to the shop. The Ukleyevo peasants usually refused to do any work for Tsybukin and farmhands had to be taken on from other villages; and now, in the darkness, it seemed that everyone sitting there had a long black beard. The shop was open and through the doorway one could see the deaf brother playing draughts with a boy. The reapers sang so softly it was hard to hear anything; when they weren’t singing, they would start shouting out loud for yesterday’s wages. But they were deliberately not paid, to stop them leaving before the next day. Old Tsybukin, wearing a waistcoat, without any frock-coat, was sitting drinking tea with Aksinya on the front-door steps under a birch tree. A lamp was burning on the table. ‘Grandpa!’ one of the reapers called out teasingly from the other side of the gates. ‘Grandpa, at least pay us half!’

  Immediately there was laughter and then the singing continued, still barely audible… Crutchy joined them for tea.

  ‘Well, I mean to say, there we were at the fair,’ he began. ‘Having a great time, children, God be praised, when something nasty happened. Sashka, the blacksmith, bought some tobacco, and paid the man half a rouble.’ Crutchy took a look round and continued. ‘But it was a bad one.’ He was trying to keep his voice down to a whisper, but only managed to produce a hoarse, muffled sound which everyone could hear. ‘Yes, it was forged all right. So the man asked, “Where did you get it?” And Sashka says, “Anisim Tsybukin gave me it when I was enjoying meself at his wedding…” So they calls the policeman, who takes him away… You’d better watch out, Grigory Petrovich, in case anybody gets to hear…’

  Again came that teasing voice from behind the gates: ‘Gra-and-pa!’ Then all was quiet.

  ‘Ah, me dear children,’ Crutchy muttered rapidly as he got up – he was feeling very drowsy – ‘thanks for the tea and sugar. Time for bed. I’m all mouldering, me timbers is rotting away. Ha, ha, ha!’

  As he left, he said, ‘It must be time for me to die!’ and he burst out sobbing.

  Old Tsybukin did not finish his tea, but still sat there thinking. From his expression it seemed he was listening to Crutchy’s footsteps, although he was well down the street by then.

  ‘That blacksmith, Sashka, was lying, perhaps,’ Aksinya said, reading his thoughts.

  He went into the house and emerged with a small packet, and when he undid it, brand-new roubles glinted. He picked one up, bit it and threw it onto the tray. Then he threw another…

  ‘No doubt about it, they’re forged,’ he murmured and gave Aksinya a bewildered look. ‘They’re the same as those Anisim gave away at the wedding.’

  Then he thrust the packet into her hands and whispered, ‘Take them, go on, take them and throw them down the well, blast’em. And don’t say a thing, in case there’s trouble. Clear the samovar away and put the lamps out…’

  As they sat in the shed, Lipa and Praskovya saw the lights go out, one by one. Only upstairs, in Varvara
’s room, were there some red and blue icon-lamps still burning and their glow imparted a feeling of peace, contentment and blissful ignorance. Praskovya just could not get used to the idea of her daughter being married to a rich man and when she came to visit them she would cower in the hall and smile pleadingly – then they would send her some tea and sugar. It was the same with Lipa, and as soon as her husband went away she did not sleep in her own bed any more, but anywhere she could – in the kitchen or the barn; every day she scrubbed the floor or did the laundry and she felt she was being used as a charwoman. Now that they were back from their pilgrimage they drank tea in the kitchen with the cook, then went into the shed and lay down between the sledge and the wall. It was dark there and smelt of horse collars. All round the house lights went out and then they could hear the deaf brother locking the shop and the reapers settling down to sleep in the open. A long way off, at the Khrymin sons’ house, someone was playing that expensive accordion… Praskovya and Lipa began to doze off.

  When someone’s footsteps woke them up everything was bright in the moonlight. Aksinya stood at the entrance to the shed with bed clothes in her arms. ‘It’s cooler out here, I think,’ she murmured. Then she came in and lay down, almost on the threshold; she was bathed in moonlight from head to foot. She could not sleep and breathed heavily, tossed and turned from the heat, and threw off most of the bedclothes. How proud and beautiful she looked in the magical moonlight. A few moments passed and those footsteps could be heard again. The white figure of the old man appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Aksinya,’ he called. ‘Are you here?’

  ‘Well!’ she answered angrily.

  ‘Yesterday I told you to throw that money down the well. Did you?’