by Chekhov, Anton; Bartlett, Leverhulme Research Fellow in Russian Cultural History Rosamund ;
‘I’m beginning to work things out… Yes… I understand everything very well now.’
‘What do you understand, Pavel Ivanych?’
‘I’ll tell you… It’s always seemed strange to me that instead of being somewhere restful, all you people who are seriously ill have ended up on a steamship, where it’s stuffy and hot and there is endless pitching, where everything is life-endangering basically, but now it’s all clear to me… Yes… Your doctors have put you on to the steamer in order to get rid of you. They have got fed up with having to bother with you, all you cattle… You don’t pay them any money, you just cause trouble, and then you go and mess up their figures by dying, so you must be cattle! But it’s not difficult to get rid of you… To go about it, first of all a person needs to lack both a conscience and any philanthropic impulse, and then it is simply a question of deceiving the ship’s management. There are no worries about the first requirement, as we have got that down to a fine art, and the second is a skill that can be acquired. In a crowd of four hundred healthy soldiers and sailors you won’t notice five who are sick; so they herd you on to the boat, where you get mixed up with the people who are healthy; they do a quick count and don’t notice anything fishy during all the commotion, and it’s only when the ship leaves port that they notice paralytics and terminal consumptives lying about on deck…’
Gusev does not understand Pavel Ivanych; thinking that he is being reprimanded, he says in his defence:
‘I was lying down on deck because I had no energy; when they transferred us from the barge to the ship I caught a chill.’
‘It’s outrageous!’ Pavel Ivanych continues. ‘The main thing, after all, is that they know perfectly well that you won’t be able to withstand the long journey, and yet they still put you on board! Well, let’s say you make it to the Indian Ocean, but then what? It’s too awful to think about… And that’s their gratitude for loyal, irreproachable service!’
Pavel Ivanych stares angrily, frowning with disgust, and says, gasping for breath:
‘They are the ones who should be pummelled in the press until their feathers start flying!’
The two sick soldiers and the sailor have woken up and are already playing cards. The sailor is half lying down in his berth, with the soldiers sitting on the floor next to him, in the most uncomfortable positions. One of the soldiers has his right arm in a sling and his hand bandaged up in a thick lump, so he holds his cards under his right armpit or in the crook of his elbow, and uses his left hand. The ship is rolling heavily. It’s impossible to stand up, drink tea, or to take medicine.
‘Were you a batman?’ Pavel Ivanych asks Gusev.
‘Yes, a batman, that’s right.’
‘Lord, oh Lord!’ says Pavel Ivanych, shaking his head sadly. ‘To uproot a man from his home and drag him ten thousand miles, then make him work so hard he gets consumption and… well, what is the point of it all, I wonder? To make him a batman to some Captain Kopeikin or a Midshipman Dyrka? * That’s very logical, that is!’
‘It’s not a difficult job, Pavel Ivanych. You get up in the morning, polish the boots, get the samovar going, and clean the rooms, but then there is nothing to do. The lieutenant spends all day drafting plans, and you can go off and say your prayers, or read a book, or go outside. Not everyone gets to have such a good life.’
‘Yes, it’s wonderful, isn’t it? The lieutenant drafts plans, and you spend the whole day sitting in the kitchen feeling homesick… Plans… Human life is what is important, not plans! You only get one life, and you’ve got to respect it.’
‘That’s true, Pavel Ivanych, a bad person gets no respect at home or at work, but if you live honestly and do what you are told, why would anyone do you any harm? These are educated folk, they understand… I didn’t get put in jail once in all five years, and I was only beaten once, if memory serves me right.’
‘What for?’
‘For fighting. I’ve got a heavy hand, Pavel Ivanych. There were these four Chinks who came into our yard; they were carrying firewood or something, I can’t quite remember what. Well, I got bored and gave them a bit of a thrashing, and then blood starting coming out of one of the bastards’ noses. The lieutenant was watching through the window and got angry and boxed my ears.’
‘You are a sad, stupid man,’ whispers Pavel Ivanych. ‘You don’t understand anything.’
He has become completely exhausted from the pitching of the ship and has closed his eyes; his head lolls backward then falls on to his chest. He tries lying down a few times, but it is no good: he starts suffocating.
‘So what did you beat up those four Chinks for?’ he asks, a little while later.
‘Don’t know. They came into the yard, so I beat them up.’
Silence descends… The card-players play for about two hours, with absorption and the odd bit of swearing, but the pitching even gets to them; they leave their cards and go and lie down. Gusev once more imagines the big pond, the factory, the village… The sledge is setting off again, Vanka is smiling and that foolish little Akulka has undone her fur coat and stuck her feet out: look, people, she is saying, my felt boots aren’t like Vanka’s, they’re new.
‘You’ll be six soon, but you still haven’t got any sense!’ mutters Gusev deliriously. ‘Instead of sticking your feet out, why don’t you go and bring your uncle in the army a drink. I’ll give you a present.’
Then comes Andron carrying a rabbit he has shot, with his flintlock gun over his shoulder, and that decrepit little Jew Isaichik following behind, offering him a piece of soap in exchange for the rabbit; there is the little black calf just inside the front door, and there is Domna sewing a shirt and crying about something, and then that bull’s head without eyes again, the black smoke…
Up above, someone gives a loud shout and several sailors run by; they seem to be dragging something cumbersome along the deck, or else something has fallen with a crash. They run past again… Has something bad happened? Gusev lifts up his head in order to listen, and he sees that the two soldiers and the sailor are playing cards again; Pavel Ivanych is sitting there, moving his lips. It is stifling, you do not have the energy to breathe and you are thirsty, but the water is warm and revolting… The ship does not stop rolling.
Suddenly something strange happens to the soldier playing cards… He calls hearts diamonds, muddles up the score, and drops the cards; then he looks round at them all with a frightened, inane smile.
‘Just a minute, fellows…’ he says, then lies down on the floor.
No one knows what to do. They call out to him, but he does not respond.
‘Maybe you’re not feeling well, Stepan? Eh?’ asks the other soldier with the bandaged hand. ‘Should we get the priest to come? What do you think?’
‘Stepan, you should drink some water…’ says the sailor. ‘Here you are, mate, have a drink.’
‘Well, what’s the point of banging a mug against his teeth?’ says Gusev angrily. ‘Can’t you see, you dimwit?’
‘What?’
‘What!’ mimics Gusev. ‘He’s not breathing, he’s dead! What, indeed! Good God, what a foolish lot you all are…’
III
The ship has stopped rolling and Pavel Ivanych has cheered up. He is not angry any more. There is a boastful, provocative, and sarcastic expression on his face. It is as if he would like to say: ‘Oh yes, I’m about to tell you a joke that will make you split your sides with laughter.’ The round porthole is open, and a gentle breeze is blowing on Pavel Ivanych. There is the sound of voices and oars flopping against the water… Right underneath the porthole someone is whining in a horrible thin voice: it must be someone Chinese singing.
‘We must be standing outside the harbour,’ says Pavel Ivanych with a sarcastic smile. ‘Only about one more month and we’ll be in Russia. Oh yes, my esteemed privates. When I get to Odessa, I’m going straight to Kharkov. I’ve got a friend who is a writer in Kharkov. I’m going to turn up and say to him: right then, my friend, it’s time
for you to put aside your vile plots about women’s romances and the beauties of nature for a while and expose the evils of two-legged scum… Have I got some subjects for you…’
He spends a minute thinking about something, then says:
‘Gusev, do you know how I duped them?’
‘Who, Pavel Ivanych?’
‘You know—them… There is only first and third class on this boat, you see, and what’s more, they only let peasants travel third class—louts in other words. But if you are wearing a jacket and look remotely middle or upper class, then you have to sail first class, if you please. You’ve got to fork out those five hundred roubles if it kills you. So I asked them why they had to have this regulation. It surely wasn’t about raising the prestige of the Russian intelligentsia. “Oh no,” they said. “It’s just that we can’t let anyone respectable travel third class: it’s far too squalid down there." Is that so? I’m so glad to see that you are taking such good care of respectable people, I said. Anyway, whether it’s appalling down there or all right, I just don’t have five hundred roubles. I haven’t robbed a bank, I haven’t exploited the natives, I haven’t been doing any smuggling, I haven’t flogged anyone to death, so what do you think: do I have the right to go first class, and therefore count myself as a member of the Russian intelligentsia? You can’t fathom their logic… So I had to resort to trickery. I put on a rough coat and some tall boots, made myself look like a drunken lout, and went up to the agent. “Need a ticket, your excellency…” I told him.’
‘And what class are you from in fact?’ the sailor asks.
‘The clergy. My father was an honest priest. He always told the plain truth to the grandees of this world and suffered a lot for it.’
Pavel Ivanych has become exhausted from talking and is short of breath, but he still carries on:
‘Yes, I always tell people the truth too… I’m not afraid of anyone or anything. In that respect, there is a big difference between you and me. You people are ignorant, blind, and downtrodden, you don’t see anything, and what you do see you don’t understand… You get told that the wind has broken its chain, that you are beasts, savages, and you believe it all; they beat you about, and you go and kiss their hands; some brute in a raccoon coat swindles you and then tosses you fifteen kopecks as a tip, and all you can say is: “Let me kiss your hand, sir.” You are outcasts, pitiful people… But I’m different. I live consciously; I see everything, like an eagle or a hawk flying above the earth, and I understand everything. I am protest personified. If I see despotism, I protest; if I see some swine getting away with something, I protest. And I’m invincible; no Spanish Inquisition is ever going to make me shut up. Oh yes… Cut out my tongue and I will protest in mime, lock me up in a cellar and I will shout so loudly you’ll hear me a mile away, or I’ll starve to death in order to weigh on their guilty consciences just that bit more; kill me and I’ll come back to haunt them. Everyone I know tells me: “Pavel Ivanych, you’re just unbearable!” I’m proud to have such a reputation. I served in the Far East for three years and will stay in people’s memories for a hundred years: I fell out with everybody. My friends write from Russia: “Don’t come back.” But here I am, I’m coming just to spite them… Yes… That’s a life I understand. That’s a proper life.’
Gusev is not listening and is looking out through the porthole. A small boat is rocking on clear, soft, turquoise water, drenched in dazzling hot sunshine. Naked Chinese, holding up cages with canaries, are standing in it and shouting:
‘Sings! Sings!’
Another boat runs into it, then a steam-launch goes past. And then another boat appears: there is a fat Chinaman sitting in it, eating rice with chopsticks. The water heaves lazily; white seagulls fly overhead lazily.
‘I wouldn’t mind having a go at that tub of lard…’ Gusev thinks, looking at the fat Chinaman and yawning.
He starts dozing, and it feels like everything all around him is dozing too. Time passes quickly. The day passes imperceptibly, darkness descends imperceptibly… The steamship is no longer standing still but has resumed its journey.
IV
Two days go by. Pavel Ivanych is no longer sitting up but lying down; his eyes are closed and his nose seems to have become more pointed.
Gusev calls out to him: ‘Pavel Ivanych! Hey, Pavel Ivanych!’
Pavel Ivanych opens his eyes and moves his lips.
‘Are you not feeling well?’
‘I’m all right…’ replies Pavel Ivanych, gasping for breath. ‘I’m all right, quite the opposite almost… I’m feeling better… Look, I can already lie down… I’m getting better…’
‘Well, thank goodness, Pavel Ivanych.’
‘When I compare myself to you, I feel sorry for you… you poor wretches. My lungs are healthy, and it’s just a gastric cough… I can put up with hell, so what is the Red Sea? Anyway, I’ve got a critical attitude to my illness and to medicines. But you… you’re ignorant… It’s hard for you; it’s very, very hard!’
There is no pitching, the sea is calm, but it is suffocatingly hot, like in a steam bath, and not only talking but even listening is difficult. Gusev hugs his knees, rests his head on them, and thinks about home. Goodness, what a pleasure it is to think about snow and cold in such sweltering heat! He is back travelling on the sleigh. Suddenly the horses are frightened by something and they bolt… They gallop straight through the village with no thought to roads, ditches, or gullies: over the pond, past the factory, then across the field. ‘Hold on!’ the factory people and passers-by shout out at the tops of their voices; ‘Hold on!’ But why slow down? Let the piercing, cold wind strike your face and sting your hands, let the clumps of snow kicked up by the horses’ hooves fall onto your hat, behind your collar, down your neck, down your front; let the runners screech and the tracers and crossbars snap—to hell with them! And what bliss when the sleigh overturns and you go hurtling into a snowdrift and land face-down in the snow; and then you get up all white, with icicles on your moustache; no hat, no mittens, your belt undone… There are people laughing and dogs barking…
Pavel Ivanych half-opens one eye, looks at Gusev with it, and asks quietly:
‘Gusev, did your commanding officer steal?’
‘Who knows, Pavel Ivanych! We don’t get to hear about that sort of thing.’
And then a long time passes in silence. Gusev thinks about things, becomes delirious, and now and again drinks some water; it is hard for him to talk and hard to listen, and he’s afraid someone will start speaking to him. An hour goes by, then another, and another; evening descends, then night, but he does not notice, and carries on sitting there, thinking about the frost.
It sounds as if someone has come into the sick bay; voices are heard, but after about five minutes everything goes quiet.
‘May the kingdom of Heaven be his, God rest his soul,’ says the soldier with his arm in a sling. ‘That man was troubled!’
‘What?’ asks Gusev. ‘Who?’
‘He died. They’ve just taken him up.’
‘Oh, right,’ mumbles Gusev with a yawn. ‘God rest his soul.’
‘What do you think, Gusev?’ asks the soldier with the sling after a pause. ‘Will he go to heaven or not?’
‘Who do you mean?’
‘Pavel Ivanych.’
‘Of course… he suffered for such a long time. And besides, he was from the clergy, and priests have lots of relatives. They’ll all start praying.’
The soldier with the sling sits on Gusev’s bunk and says softly:
‘You’re not long for this world either, Gusev. You won’t get to Russia.’
‘Why, did the doctor or the orderly say something?’ asks Gusev.
‘No one said anything, one just has to look at you… It is easy to tell when a person is going to die soon. You aren’t eating, you aren’t drinking, and you’re wasting away—it’s dreadful to look at you. Consumption, in a word. I’m not saying this to upset you, but because you might want to receive the sa
crament and last rites. And if you have any money, you could give it to the senior officer.’
‘I haven’t written home…’ says Gusev with a sigh. ‘I’ll die and they won’t find out.’
‘They’ll find out,’ says the sick sailor in his deep voice. ‘When you die, they will make a note in the ship’s log, then they will pass a record on to the military commander in Odessa, and he will write to your district or something…’
Gusev is terrified by this conversation and starts hankering for something. He drinks some water but that’s not it; he stretches over to the round porthole and breathes in some hot, humid air, but that’s not it either; he tries thinking about home, about snow, and that’s not it… if he spends just one more minute in the sickbay, he will definitely suffocate.
‘Can’t breathe, fellows…’ he says. ‘I’m going up on deck. Help take me up, in the name of Christ!’
‘All right,’ says the soldier with the sling. ‘You won’t make it on your own, so I’ll carry you. Hang on to my neck.’
Gusev puts his hands round the soldier’s neck, and the soldier gets hold of him with his good arm and carries him up. Discharged soldiers and sailors are sleeping side by side on deck; there are so many of them it is difficult to make their way through.
‘Get down now,’ says the soldier with the sling quietly. ‘Hold on to my shirt and just follow me slowly.’
It is dark. There are no lights on deck or on the masts, or anywhere around them on the ocean. The watch stands right on the bow, as motionless as a statue, but it looks as if he is sleeping too. It feels as if the steamship has been left to its own devices and is going wherever it wants.
‘They’re going to throw Pavel Ivanych into the sea now…’ says the soldier with the sling. ‘Into a bag first and then overboard.’
‘Yes. That’s what they do.’
‘But it’s better to lie in the earth at home. At least your mother can come to the grave and cry.’
