The Undiscovered Chekhov: Forty-Three New Stories

by Anton Chekhov

  “All my happiness rests on a single person,” I continued. “I feel deeply for that person... her perfume... I love her, and should she not return my love, then I am lost... dead... You are that person. Can you love me? Huh? Could you love me?”

  “I love you,” she whispered.

  I must confess I almost died. I had thought she would dig in her heels, since she was deeply in love with someone else. I had relied on her passion for the other man, but things turned out quite differently. She wasn’t strong enough to swim against the tide!

  “I love you,” she repeated, and burst into tears.

  “But, no, that can’t be!” I shouted, not knowing what I was saying, my whole body shaking. “How is it possible? Zoe Andreyevna—do not believe a word of what I said! My God, do not believe a word! May I roast in hell if I am in love with you! And you do not love me! This is all nonsense!”

  I jumped up from the bench.

  “We needn’t go through with this! This is a farce! They are forcing us to marry for money, Zoe. What love is there between us? I would rather have a millstone around my neck than marry you! Its as simple as that! Damn! What right do they have to do this to us? What do they think we are? Serfs? Dogs? We won’t get married! Damn them, the bastards! We’ve danced to their tune long enough already! I’m going to them right this minute to tell them that I won’t marry you—it’s as simple as that!”

  Zoe suddenly stopped crying; her tears instantly dried up.

  “I’m going to tell them right now!” I continued. “And you tell them too. Tell them that you don’t love me—that it’s Bol- nitsin you love. And I’ll be the first to shake Bolnitsin’s hand... I’m fully aware of how deeply in love you are with him!”

  Zoe smiled happily and came up to me.

  “And you’re in love with someone else too, aren’t you?” she said, rubbing her hands together. “You’re in love with Mademoiselle De Beux!”

  “Yes,” I said, “Mademoiselle De Beux. She’s not Russian Orthodox, and she’s not rich, but I love her for her mind and her edifying qualities. My parents can send me to hell, but I will marry her! I love her, I think I love her even more than I love life itself! I cannot live without her! If I can’t marry her, then I no longer wish to live! I’m going right this minute... let’s both go and tell these fools... oh, thank you, my dearest...you have comforted me no end!”

  My soul was flooded with happiness, and I thanked Zoe again and again, and she thanked me. And both of us, overjoyed, thankful, kissed each other’s hands, commending each other on our high-mindedness. I kissed her hands; she kissed my forehead, the stubble of my beard. It seems that, forgetting all etiquette, I even hugged her! And let me tell you, this declaration of nonlove was sweeter than any declaration of love could be! Joyful, rosy, trembling all over, we rushed to the house to tell our parents of our decision. As we crossed the garden, we cheered each other on.

  “So let them shout at us!” I said. “They can beat us, even throw us out, at least we’ll be happy!”

  We entered the house, and there, by the door, our parents were waiting. They took one look at us, saw how happy we were, and immediately called the butler. He brought in the champagne. I started protesting, waving my arms, stamping my feet.... Zoe began crying, shrieking... there was a tremendous uproar, a rumpus, and we didn’t get to drink the champagne.

  But they married us anyway.

  Today is our silver wedding anniversary. We have lived together for a quarter of a century. Initially it was terrible. I swore at her, beat her, and then out of regret began loving her. This regret brought with it children... and then... well... we just got used to each other. This very moment my darling Zoe is standing right behind me. Laying her hands on my shoulders, she kisses my bald spot.

  FROM

  THE

  DIARY

  OF AN

  ASSISTANT

  BOOKKEEPER

  MAY 1 lTH, 1863 Glotkin, our sixty- year-old bookkeeper, has been drinking milk laced with cognac for his cough, and as a result he has fallen into a violent alcoholic delirium. The doctors, with their typical self-confidence, confirm that he will die tomorrow. At last I will be bookkeeper! I have been promised this position for a long time now.

  Kleshchev is to be tried for physically attacking an appli-cant who called him a bureaucrat. It seems that there will be a court case.

  I had some fluid extracted from my stomach catarrh.

  AUGUST 3RD, 1865

  Glotkin, our bookkeeper, has a cold in his chest again. He is coughing and has started drinking milk laced with cognac. If he dies I will get his position. My hopes are high, but somewhat shaky—experience has shown that delirium tremens is not always fatal.

  Kleshchev snatched a promissory note from an Armenian and tore it up. It seems that there will be a court case.

  An old village woman (Guryevna) told me yesterday that what I have is not a catarrh, but a hidden hemorrhoid. It’s quite possible!

  JUNE 30TH, 1867

  The newspapers write that there’s a cholera epidemic in Arabia. Maybe it will come to Russia, and there will be many job openings. Maybe the old bookkeeper will die and I will get his position. What vigor that man has! If you ask me, living such a long time is reprehensible.

  I wonder what I should take for that catarrh of mine. Maybe some wormseed might do the trick.

  JANUARY 2ND, 1870

  A dog was howling all night long in Glotkin’s yard. Pelageya, my cook, says that this is a definite omen, and we stayed up until two in the morning talking about how once I become bookkeeper I will buy myself a raccoon coat and a dressing gown. And maybe I will even get married! Obviously not to a young girl—I’m a bit too old for that—but to a widow.

  Yesterday Kleshchev was thrown out of the club for telling a joke, at the top of his voice, mocking the patriotism of one of the members of Ponyukhov’s trade delegation. From what I hear, Ponyukhov is taking him to court.

  I think I’ll go to Doctor Botkin for my catarrh. They say he’s good at healing....

  JULY 4TH, 1878

  The newspapers report that the plague has hit Vetlyanka. People are dropping like flies. As a precaution, Glotkin is drinking pepper vodka. As if pepper vodka would save an old fool like him! If the plague hits here, I’ll definitely be the new bookkeeper!

  JUNE 4TH, 1883

  Glotkin is dying. I went to visit him, and crying bitter tears, I begged forgiveness for having waited for his death with such impatience. He forgave me magnanimously, and suggested I drink acorn coffee for my catarrh.

  Kleshchev again almost ended up in court: he rented a piano and then pawned it to the Jews. And in spite of all this he has a Stanislav medal and the rank of Collegiate Assessor. It’s amazing, the things that happen in this world!

  Essence of Inbir—ten grams. Kalgan potion—seven grams. Ostraya vodka—four grams. Seven-brother-blood— twenty grams. To cure catarrh, mix these with a liter of vodka and drink one wineglass of the mixture on an empty stomach.

  JUNE 7TH, 1883

  Glotkin was buried yesterday. Alas! The old mans death was of no use to me! I see him in my dreams at night, wrapped in a shroud, beckoning. And woe unto me, the sinner—I did not become the bookkeeper, Chalikov did! It was not I who got the job, but a young man with the help of the general’s wife’s aunt! My hopes are dashed!

  JUNE 10TH, 1886

  Chalikov’s wife has run away. The poor man is distraught. Maybe grief will drive him to take his own life. If he does, I will be bookkeeper! There has already been talk. In other words, where there’s life there’s hope, and maybe the road to the raccoon coat will be short and sweet. As for getting married, it’s not such a bad idea. Why not get married if the opportunity should arise? But I’ll need some good advice—marriage is a serious step.

  Kleshchev took Councillor Lirmanso’s galoshes. It’s a scandal!

  Paysi the doorman suggested I use a mercuric chloride solution for my catarrh.

  I’m going to
try it.

  A FOOL; OR,

  THE RETIRED

  SEA CAPTAIN:

  A SCENE

  UNWRITTEN

  VAUDEVILLE

  PLAY

  IT IS THE MARRIAGE season. Soufov is a retired sea captain. He is sitting on an oilskin sofa, with one leg resting over the other, his arms crossed. As he speaks he rocks back and forth. Lukinishna the matchmaker is a fat, sagging old woman sitting on a stool next to him. She has a foolish but good-natured face, with an expression of horror mixed with surprise. Seen from the side, she looks like a large snail; from the front, like a black beetle. She speaks servilely, and hiccups after every word.

  CAPTAIN: By the way, if you think about it, Ivan Nikolayevitch has set himself up quite nicely. He did well to get married. You can be a professor, a genius even, but if you’re not married, you’re not worth a brass kopeck! You’ve no census or public opinion worth mentioning. If you’re not married, you don’t carry any weight in society. Take me, for instance. I am a man from an educated background, a house owner, I have money, rank—even a medal! But what’s the point? Who am I if you look at me from a point of view?—An old bachelor—a mere synonym, nothing more. (He pauses to think.) Everyone’s married, everyone has children, except me—it’s like in the song.... (He sings a few doleful lines in a deep baritone.) That’s how my life is—surely there must be some woman left on the shelf for me to get married to!

  LUKINISHNA: On the shelf? Lordy-lord, I’m sure we can do better than that! What with your noble nature, and... well, all your good qualities, and everything, we’ll find you a woman—even one with money!

  CAPTAIN: I don’t need a woman with money. I wouldn’t dream of doing such a despicable thing as marrying for money! I have my own money—I don’t want to be eating from her plate, I want her to eat from mine! When you marry a poor woman, she’s bound to feel and understand. I’m not that much of an egoist that I want to profit...

  LUKINISHNA: Well, yes... and one thing’s sure—a poor bride might well be prettier than a rich one...

  CAPTAIN: But I’m not interested in looks either! What for? You can’t use a pretty face as a cup and saucer! Beauty should not be in the flesh, it should be in the soul. What I need is goodness, meekness, you know, innocence... I want a wife who’ll honor me, respect me...

  LUKINISHNA: Yes! How can she not respect you if you’re her lawfully wedded husband? It’s not like she’d be uneducated or something!

  CAPTAIN: Don’t interrupt me! And I don’t need an educated wife either! Nowadays, obviously, everyone’s got an education, but there are different kinds of education. It’s all well and good if your wife can prattle in French and German and God knows what else—it’s very charming! But what use is all that if she can’t, for instance, sew a simple button onto a shirt? I come from an educated background myself. I can show my face in any circle—I can sit down and chat with Prince Kanitelin as easily as I’m chatting with you right now, but I’m a simple man, and I need a simple girl. I’m not looking for intellect. In a man, intellect is important, but a female can get by quite nicely without much intellect.

  LUKINISHNA: That’s so very true! Even the newspapers are now saying that clever people are worthless!

  CAPTAIN:A fool will both love you and respect you, and realize what my rank in life is. She will be fearful. A clever woman will eat your bread, but not feel whose bread she’s eating. I want you to find me a fool! It’s as simple as that! A fool! Do you have your eye on anyone?

  LUKINISHNA: Oh, quite a few! (She thinks.) Let me see.... There are fools and there are fools... after all, even a foolish hen has her brainstorms! But you want a real idiot, right? (She thinks.) I know one, but I’m not sure if she’s what you’re looking for... she’s from a merchant family and comes with a dowry of about five thousand... I wouldn’t say she’s downright ugly, she’s, well, you know... neither here nor there. She’s skinny, very thin... gende, delicate... and she’s kind, beyond the call of duty! She’d hand over her last piece of bread if you told her to! And she’s meek—her mother could drag her through the house by the hair, and she wouldn’t even squeak! And she fears her parents, she goes to church, and at home she’s always ready to help! But when it comes to this... (She points to her forehead.) Do not judge me too harshly, sinful old woman that I am, for my plainspokenness, for the forthright truth that I speak to you with the Lord as my witness: she’s not all there up here! A complete fool! You can’t get a word out of her, not a word, as if she were dead as a doornail. She’ll sit there tight-lipped for hours, and suddenly, out of the blue—she’ll jump up! As if you’d poured boiling water over her! She jumps up as if she were scalded and starts babbling... babbling, babbling... babbling endlessly... that her parents are fools, the food’s awful, and all they do is lie, and that she has nowhere to go, that they ruined her life... “There’s no way,” the girl shouts, “that you can understand me!” The fool! A merchant called Kashalotov was wooing her—she turned him down! She laughed in his face! And he’s rich, handsome, elegant, just like a young officer! And what does she do? She snatches up a stupid book, marches off to the pantry, and starts reading!

  CAPTAIN: NOshe’s not a fool of the right category... find me another! (He gets up and looks at his watch.) Well, bonjour for now. I’ll be getting back to my bachelor business.

  LUKINISHNA: Well, go right along! Go with God! (She gets up.) I’ll drop by again Saturday evening with more about our bride.... (She walks over to the door.) And by the way, while you’re getting back to your bachelor business, should I send you someone else for now?

  IN

  AUTUMN

  NIGHT WAS ABOUT TO FALL. A crowd of

  A crowd of coach-men and pilgrims was sitting in Uncle Tikhon’s tavern. An autumn downpour with raging wet winds that lashed across their faces had driven them to seek refuge there. The tired, drenched travelers sat listening to the wind, dozing on benches by the wall. Boredom was written on their faces. One coachman, a pockmarked fellow with a scarred face, held a wet accordion on his knees: he played and stopped mechanically.

  Outside the tavern door splashes of rain flew around the dim, grimy lantern. The wind howled like a wolf, yelping, as if to tear itself away from its tether by the door. From the yard came the sound of horses snorting and hoofs thudding in the mud. It was dank and cold.

  Uncle Tikhon, a tall peasant with a fat face and small, drowsy, deep-set eyes, sat behind the counter. In front of him on the other side of the counter stood a man of about forty, in clothes that were dirty and shabby but respectable. He was wearing a wrinkled summer coat covered with mud, calico pants, and rubber galoshes without shoes. His head, his thin pointed elbows, and the hands jammed into his pockets were shivering feverishly. From time to time a sudden spasm ran down his whole gaunt body, from his horribly haggard face to his rubber galoshes.

  “For Christ’s sake!” he said to Tikhon in his scratchy, broken bass. “Give me a drink... just a little one, that glass there! You can put it on my tab!”

  “You bet I can! Nothing but scoundrels in here!”

  The scoundrel looked at Tikhon with contempt, with hatred. If he could, he would have murdered him then and there.

  “You just don’t understand, you lout, you numskull! It’s not me begging—from deep within my guts—as you say in your peasant lingo! It’s my illness begging! Can’t you see that?”

  “There’s nothing to see! Get out!”

  “You must understand! If I don’t get a drink now, if I don’t assuage my passion, I’m quite capable of committing a crime! By God, I’m quite capable! You bastard, you’ve been handing out drinks to drunkards for ages in your damn tavern! And you’re telling me that till today you never gave a thought to what they were? Sick people, that’s what! You can chain them up, beat them, flail them—as long as you give them their vodka! I humbly beg you! I implore you! I’m demeaning myself.... Lord, how I am demeaning myself!” The scoundrel shook his head and spat on the floor.

 
; “Give me money, and you’ll have your vodka!” Tikhon said.

  “Where am I supposed to get money from? I’ve drunk it all! This coat’s all I’ve got left. I can’t give it to you, I’m not wearing anything underneath... d’you want my hat?”

  The scoundrel gave Tikhon his felt hat, whose lining was showing through here and there. Tikhon took the hat, looked at it, and shook his head.

  “I wouldn’t take this if you gave it to me for nothing!” he said. “It’s a piece of shit!”

  “You don’t like it? Then give me a drink on credit if you don’t like it. When I come back from town I’ll give you your fiver! Then you can choke on it! Yes, choke on it!”

  “You trying to con me? What kind of a man are you? What did you come here for?”

  “I want a drink. Not me, my illness! Do you understand?”

  “Why are you bothering me? The road outside is full of scum like you! Go ask them in the name of Christ to give you a drink. All I’ll hand out in the name of Christ is bread! You swine!”

  “You can fleece them, the poor bastards, but me—I’m sorry, I can’t take their money! Not me!”

  The scoundrel suddenly stopped, blushed, and turned to the pilgrims.

  “That’s an idea! You’re Christians! Will you sacrifice a fiver? I beg you from deep within my guts! I’m ill!”

  “Drink water!” the small man with the pock-marked face laughed.

  The scoundrel felt ashamed. He started coughing heavily and then fell silent. A few moments later he started pleading again with Tikhon. Finally he burst into tears and began offering his wet coat for a glass of vodka. In the darkness no one could see his tears, and no one took his coat because among the pilgrims there were women who did not want to see a man’s nakedness.