Five Great Short Stories

by Anton Chekhov

  I have already begun to forget about the house with the mezzanine, and only now and then, when I am working or reading, suddenly—without rhyme or reason—I remember the green light in the window, and the sound of my own footsteps as I walked through the fields that night, when I was in love, rubbing my hands to keep them warm. And even more rarely, when I am sad and lonely, I begin already to recollect and it seems to me that I, too, am being remembered and waited for, and that we shall meet. . . .

  Missyuss, where are you?

  The Peasants

  CHAPTER I

  Blows

  NIKOLAI TCHIKILDEYEFF, WAITER, of the Slaviansky Bazaar Hotel at Moscow, became ill. Once in a corridor he stumbled and fell with a tray of ham and peas and had to resign. What money he had, his own and his wife’s, soon went on treatment. He was tired of idleness and had to return to his native village. It was cheaper to live at home, after all, and the best place for invalids; and there is some truth in the proverb, “At home the walls feel good.”

  He arrived at Zhukovo towards evening. He pictured his birthplace as cosy, and comfortable as a child, but now when he entered the hut he knew it was close, and dirty inside. And his wife Olga and little daughter Sasha looked questioningly at the big, sooty stove, black from smoke, which took up half the hut and was covered with flies. The stove was crooked, the logs in the walls sloped, and it seemed that every minute the hut would tumble to pieces. The ikon-corner, instead of pictures, was hung with bottle-labels and newspaper-cuttings. Poverty, poverty! Of the grown-ups no one was at home—they reaped in the fields; and alone on the stove sat an eight-year-old girl, fair-haired, unwashed, and so indifferent that she did not even look at the strangers. Beneath, a white cat rubbed herself against the pot-hanger.

  “Puss, puss!” cried Sasha. “Pussy!”

  “She can’t hear,” said the girl on the stove. “She’s deaf!”

  “How deaf?”

  “Deaf. . . . From beating.”

  The first glance told Nikolai and Olga the life awaiting them; but they said nothing, silently laid down their bundles, and went into the street. The hut was the third from the corner, and the oldest and poorest in sight; its next-door neighbour, indeed, was little better; but the corner cabin boasted an iron roof and curtains in the windows. This cabin had no fence, and stood alone; it was the village inn. In one continuous row stretched other huts; and, as a whole, the village, peaceful and meditative, with the willows, elders, and mountain-ash peeping out of the gardens, was pleasing to see.

  Behind the cabins the ground sloped steeply towards the river; and here and there in the clay stuck denuded stones. On the slope, around these stones and the potters’ pits, lay heaps of potsherds, some brown, some red; and below stretched a broad, flat, and bright green meadow, already mown, and now given over to the peasants’ herds. A verst5 from the village ran the winding river with its pretty tufted banks; and beyond the river another field, a herd, long strings of white geese; then, as on the village side, a steep ascent. On the crest of the hill rose another village with a five-cupolaed church, and a little beyond it the local noble’s house.

  “It’s a fine place, your village,” said Olga, crossing herself towards the church. “What freedom, Lord!”

  At that moment (it was Saturday night) the church bells rang for vesper service. In the valley beneath, two little girls with a water-pail turned their heads towards the church and listened to the bells.

  “At the Slaviansky Bazaar they’re sitting down to dinner,” said Nikolai thoughtfully.

  Seated on the brink of the ravine, Nikolai and Olga watched the setting sun and the image of the gold and purple sky in the river and in the church windows, and inhaled the soft, restful, inexpressibly pure air, unknown to them in Moscow. When the sun had set came lowing cattle and bleating sheep; geese flew towards them; and all was silent. The soft light faded from the air and evening shadows swept across the land.

  Meantime the absent family returned to the hut. First came Nikolai’s father and mother, dry, bent, and toothless, and of equal height. Later, their sons’ wives, Marya and Fekla, employed on the noble’s farm across the river. Marya, wife of Nikolai’s brother Kiriak, had six children; Fekla, wife of Denis, then a soldier, two; and when Nikolai, entering the hut, saw the whole family, all these big and little bodies, which moved in the loft, in cradles, in corners; when he saw the greed with which the old man and women ate black bread soaked in water, he felt that he had made a mistake in coming home, sick, penniless, and—what was worse—with his family.

  “And where is brother Kiriak?” he asked, greeting his parents.

  “He’s watchman at the trader’s,” answered the old man. “In the wood. He’s a good lad, but drinks heavily.”

  “He’s no profit,” said the old woman in a lachrymose voice. “Our men are not much use, they bring nothing home with them, and only take things. Our Kiriak drinks; and the old man, there’s no use hiding it, himself knows the way to the drink-shop. They’ve angered our Mother in Heaven!”

  In honor of the guests the samovar was brought out. The tea smelt of fish, the sugar was damp and looked as if it had been gnawed, the bread and vessels were covered with cockroaches; it was painful to drink, and painful to hear the talk—of nothing but poverty and sickness. Before they had emptied their first glasses, from the yard came a loud drawling, drunken cry—

  “Ma-arya!”

  “That sounds like Kiriak,” said the old man. “Talk of the devil and he appears!”

  The peasants were silent. A moment later came the same cry, rough and drawling, and this time it seemed to come from underground.

  “Ma-arya!”

  The elder daughter-in-law, Marya, turned deadly pale and pressed her body to the stove; and it was strange to see the expression of terror on the face of this strong, broad-shouldered, ugly woman. Her daughter, the little, indifferent girl who had sat on the stove, suddenly began to cry loudly.

  “Stop howling, cholera!” cried angrily Fekla, a good-looking woman, also strong and broad-shouldered. “He won’t kill you!”

  From the old man Nikolai soon learned that Marya was afraid to live with her husband in the forest; and that when he had drunk too much Kiriak came for her, and made scenes and beat her mercilessly.

  “Ma-arya!” came the cry, this time from outside the door.

  “Help me, for the love of heaven, help me!” chattered Marya, breathing as if she had been thrown into icy water. “Help me, kinsmen——”

  The houseful of children suddenly began to cry, and, seeing them, Sasha did the same. A drunken cough echoed without, and into the hut came a tall, black-bearded muzhik6 wearing a winter cap. In the dim lamp-light his face was barely visible, and all the more terrible. It was Kiriak. He went straight to his wife, flourished his arm, and struck her with his clenched fist in the face. Marya did not utter a sound, the blow seemed to have stunned her, but she seemed to dwindle; a stream of blood flowed out of her nose.

  “It’s a shame, a shame,” muttered the old man, climbing on the stove. “And before our visitors! It’s a sin!”

  The old woman kept silence, and, bent in two, seemed lost in thought. Fekla rocked the cradle. Kiriak seized Marya’s hand, dragged her to the door, and, to increase her terror, roared like a beast. But at that moment he saw the visitors, and stopped.

  “So you’ve come!” he began, releasing his wife. “My own brother and his family. . . .”

  He prayed a moment before the image, staggered, opened his red, drunken eyes, and continued—

  “My brother and family have come to their parents’ house . . . from Moscow, that means . . . The old capital, that means, the city of Moscow, mother of cities. . . . Excuse . . .”

  Amid the silence of all, he dropped on the bench near the samovar, and began to drink loudly from a saucer. When he had drunk ten cupfuls he leaned back on the bench and began to snore.

  Bed-time came. Nikolai, as an invalid, was given a place on the stove beside
the old man; Sasha slept on the floor; and Olga went with the young women to the shed.

  “Never mind, my heart!” she said, lying on the hay beside Marya. “Crying is no help. You must bear it. In the Bible it is written, ‘Whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.’ Don’t cry, my heart!”

  And then, in a whisper, she began to tell of Moscow, of her life there, how she had served as housemaid in furnished lodgings.

  “In Moscow the houses are big and built of brick,” said Olga. “There is no end of churches—forty forties of them—my heart; and the houses are all full of gentlemen, so good-looking, so smart!”

  And Marya answered that she had never been in the district town, much less in Moscow; she was illiterate, and knew no prayers, not even “Our Father.” Both she and her sister-in-law Fekla, who sat some way off and listened, were ignorant in the extreme, and understood nothing. Both disliked their husbands; Marya dreaded Kiriak, shook with terror when he stayed with her, and after his departure her head ached from the smell of vodka and tobacco. And Fekla, in answer to the question did she want her husband, answered angrily—

  “What ? . . . Him?”

  For a time the women spoke, and then lay down.

  It was cold, and a cock crew loudly, hindering sleep. When the blue morning light began to break through the chinks, Fekla rose stealthily and went out, and her movements could be heard, as she ran down the street in her bare feet.

  CHAPTER II

  Marya

  WHEN OLGA went to church she took with her Marya. As they descended the path to the meadow, both were in good humour. Olga liked the freedom of the country; and Marya found in her sister-in-law a kindred spirit. The sun was rising. Close to the meadow flew a sleepy hawk; the river was dull, for there was a slight mist, but the hill beyond it was bathed in light; the church glittered, and rooks cawed in the garden of the big house beyond.

  “The old man is not bad,” said Marya. “But my mother-in-law is cross and quarrelsome. Our own corn lasted till Shrovetide; now we have to buy at the inn; and the old woman is angry, and says, ‘You eat too much.’”

  “Never mind, my heart! You must bear that too. It is written in the Bible, ‘Come unto Me all ye that are weary and heavy laden.’”

  Olga spoke gravely and slowly; and walked, like a pilgrim, quickly and briskly. Every day she read the Gospel, aloud, like a clerk; and though there was much that she did not understand, the sacred words touched her to tears, and words like astche, dondezhe7 she pronounced with beating heart. She believed in God, in the Virgin, in the saints; and her faith was that it was wrong to do evil to any man, even to Germans, gipsies, and Jews. When she read aloud the Gospel, even when she stopped at words she did not understand, her face grew compassionate, kindly, and bright.

  “What part are you from?” asked Marya.

  “Vladimir. I have been long in Moscow, since I was eight years old.”

  They approached the river. On the other bank stood a woman, undressing herself.

  “That is our Fekla!” said Marya. “She’s been across the river at the squire’s house. With the stewards! She’s impudent and ill-spoken—awful!”

  Black-browed Fekla, with loosened hair, jumped into the river, and, young and firm as a girl, splashed in the water, making big waves.

  “She’s impudent—awful!” repeated Marya.

  Across the river was a shaky bridge of beams, and at that moment beneath it in the clear, transparent water swam carp. On the green bushes, imaged in the water, glistened dew. It was warm and pleasant. What a wonderful morning! And indeed, how splendid would be life in this world were it not for poverty, hideous, hopeless poverty, from which there is no escape! But look back to the village, and memory awakens all the events of yesterday; and the intoxication of joy vanishes in a wink.

  The women reached the church. Marya stopped near the door, afraid to go inside. She feared, too, to sit down, though the service would not begin till nine o’clock, and stood all the time.

  As the Gospel was being read the worshippers suddenly moved, and made way for the squire’s family. In came two girls in white dresses with wide-brimmed hats, and behind them a stout, rosy boy dressed as a sailor. Their coming pleased Olga; she felt that here at last were well-taught, orderly, good-looking people. But Marya looked at them furtively and gloomily, as if they were not human beings but monsters who would crush her if she failed to make way.

  And when the deacon sang out in a bass voice, she fancied she heard the cry “Ma-arya!” and shuddered.

  CHAPTER III

  Songs

  THE VILLAGE quickly heard of the visitors’ arrival, and when church was over the hut was crowded. The Leonuitcheffs, Matveitcheffs, and Ilitchoffs came for news of their kinsmen in Moscow. Every man in Zhukovo who could read and write was taken to Moscow as waiter or boots; and, similarly, the village across the river supplied only bakers; and this custom obtained since before the Emancipation, when a certain legendary Luka Ivanuitch, of Zhukovo, was lord of the buffet in a Moscow club, and hired none but fellow-villagers. These, in turn attaining power, sent for their kinsmen and found them posts in inns and restaurants; so that from that time Zhukovo was called by the local population Khamskaya or Kholuefka.8 Nikolai was taken to Moscow at the age of eleven, and given a post by Ivan Makaruitch, one of the Matveitcheffs, then porter at the Hermitage Gardens. And, now, turning to the Matveitcheffs, Nikolai said gravely—

  “Ivan Makaruitch was my benefactor; it is my duty to pray God for him day and night, for it was through him I became a good man.”

  “Batiushka9 mine!” said tearfully a tall, old woman, Ivan Makaruitch’s sister. “And have you no news of him?”

  “He was at Omon’s last winter; and this season, I heard, he’s in some gardens outside town. . . . He’s grown old. Once in the summer he’d bring home ten roubles a day, but now everywhere business is dull—the old man’s in a bad way.”

  The women, old and young, looked at the high felt boots on Nikolai’s legs, and at his pale face, and said sadly—

  “You’re no money-maker, Nikolai Osipuitch, no money-bringer!”

  And all caressed Sasha. Sasha was past her tenth birthday, but, small and very thin, she looked not more than seven. Among the sunburnt, untidy village girls, in their long cotton shirts, pale-faced, big-eyed Sasha, with the red ribbon in her hair, seemed a toy, a little strange animal caught in the fields, and brought back to the hut.

  “And she knows how to read!” boasted Olga, looking tenderly at her daughter. “Read something, child!” she said, taking a New Testament from the corner. “Read something aloud and let the orthodox listen!”

  The old, heavy, leather-bound, bent-edged Bible smelt like a monk. Sasha raised her eyebrows, and began in a loud drawl—

  “. . . And when they were departed, behold the angel of the Lord appeareth to Joseph in a dream, saying, Arise and take the young child and his mother . . .”

  “‘The young child and his mother,’” repeated Olga. She reddened with joy.

  “. . . and flee into Egypt . . . and be thou there until I bring thee word. . . .”

  At the word “until” Olga could not longer restrain her emotion and began to cry. Marya followed her example, and Ivan Makaruitch’s sister cried also. The old man coughed and fussed about, seeking a present for his grandchild, but he found nothing, and waved his hand. When the reading ended, the visitors dispersed to their homes, deeply touched, and pleased with Olga and Sasha.

  As the day was Sunday the family remained in the hut. The old woman, whom husband, daughters-in-law, and grandchildren alike addressed as “grandmother,” did everything with her own hands: she lighted the stove, set the samovar; she even worked in the fields; and at the same time growled that she was tortured with work. She tortured herself with dread that the family might eat too much, and took care that her husband and daughters-in-law did not sit with idle hands. Once when she found that the innkeeper’s geese had got into her
kitchen-garden, she rushed at once out of the house armed with a long stick; and for half an hour screamed piercingly over her cabbages, which were as weak and thin as their owner. Later she imagined that a hawk had swooped on her chickens, and with loud curses she flew to meet the hawk. She lost her temper and growled from morning to night, and often screamed so loudly that passers-by stopped to listen.

  Her husband she treated badly, denouncing him sometimes as a lie-abed, sometimes as “cholera.” The old man was a hopeless, unsubstantial muzhik, and perhaps, indeed, if she had not spurred him on, he would have done no work at all, but sat all day on the stove and talked. He complained to his son at great length of certain enemies in the village and of the wrongs he suffered day by day; and it was tiresome to hear him.

  “Yes,” he said, putting his arms to his waist. “Yes. A week after Elevation I sold my hay for thirty kopeks a pood. Yes. Good! . . . and this means that one morning I drive my hay cart and interfere with nobody; and suddenly, in an evil moment, I look round, and out of the inn comes the headman, Antip Siedelnikoff. ‘Where are you driving, old So-and-so?’ and bangs me in the ear!”

  Kiriak’s head ached badly from drink, and he was ashamed before his brother.

  “It’s drink that does it. Akh, my Lord God!” he stammered, shaking his big head. “You, brother, and you, sister, forgive me, for the love of Christ; I feel bad myself.”

  To celebrate Sunday, they bought herrings at the inn, and made soup of the heads. At midday all sat down to tea and drank until they sweated and, it seemed, swelled up; and when they had drunk the tea they set to on the soup, all eating from the same bowl. The old woman hid away the herrings.

  At night a potter baked his pots in the ravine. In the meadow below, the village girls sang in chorus; and some one played a concertina. Beyond the river also glowed a potter’s oven, and village girls sang; and from afar the music sounded soft and harmonious. The muzhiks gathered in the inn; they sang tipsily, each a different song; and the language they used made Olga shudder and exclaim—