The Steppe and Other Stories, 1887-91

by Anton Chekhov

  1891

  Severe famine in Volga basin (Chekhov organizes relief) Chekhov undertakes six-week tour of Western Europe with Suvorin. Intense affair with Lika Mizinova Works on The Island of Sakhalin. ‘The Duel’ published serially. Works on ‘The Grasshopper’

  1892

  Chekhov buys small estate at Melikhovo, near Moscow; parents and sister live there with him. Gives free medical aid to peasants. Re-reads Turgenev; regards him as inferior to Tolstoy and very critical of his heroines ‘Ward No. 6’ and ‘An Anonymous Story’

  1893

  The Island of Sakhalin completed and published serially

  1894

  Death of Alexander III; accession of Nicholas II; 1,000 trampled to death at Khodynka Field during coronation celebrations. Strikes in St Petersburg Chekhov makes another trip to Western Europe ‘The Student’, ‘Teacher of Literature’, ‘At a Country House’ and ‘The Black Monk’

  1895

  ‘Three Years’. Writes ‘Ariadna’, ‘Murder’ and ‘Anna Round the Neck’. First draft of The Seagull

  1896

  Chekhov agitates personally for projects in rural education and transport; helps in building of village school at Talezh; makes large donation of books to Taganrog Public Library ‘My Life’ published in instalments. The Seagull meets with hostile reception at Aleksandrinsky Theatre

  1897

  Chekhov works for national census; builds second rural school. Crisis in health with lung haemorrhage; convalesces in Nice ‘Peasants’ is strongly attacked by reactionary critics and mutilated by censors. Publishes Uncle Vanya, but refuses to allow performance (until 1899)

  1898

  Formation of Social Democrat Party. Dreyfus affair Stanislavsky founds Moscow Art Theatre with Nemirovich-Danchenko Chekhov very indignant over Dreyfus affair and supports Zola; conflict with anti-Semitic Suvorin over this. His father dies. Moves to Yalta, where he buys land. Friendly with Gorky and Bunin (both of whom left interesting memoirs of Chekhov). Attracted to Olga Knipper at Moscow Art Theatre rehearsal of The Seagull, but leaves almost immediately for Yalta. Correspondence with Gorky Trilogy ‘Man in a Case’, ‘Gooseberries’ and ‘About Love’. ‘Ionych’. The Seagull has first performance at Moscow Art Theatre and Chekhov is established as a playwright

  1899

  Widespread student riots Tolstoy’s Resurrection serialized Chekhov has rift with Suvorin over student riots. Olga Knipper visits Melikhovo. He sells Melikhovo in June and moves with mother and sister to Yalta. Awarded Order of St Stanislav for educational work ‘Darling’, ‘New Country Villa’ and ‘On Official Duty’. Signs highly unfavourable contract with A. F. Marks for complete edition of his works. Taxing and time-consuming work of compiling first two volumes. Moderate success of Uncle Vanya at Moscow Art Theatre. Publishes one of finest stories, ‘The Lady with the Little Dog’. Completes ‘In the Ravine’. Begins serious work on Three Sisters; goes to Nice to revise last two acts

  1900

  Chekhov settles in the house built by him in Yalta. Actors from the Moscow Art Theatre visit Sevastopol and Yalta at his request. Low opinion of Ibsen Sees Uncle Vanya for first time

  1901

  Formation of Socialist Revolutionary Party. Tolstoy excommunicated by Russian Orthodox Church Chekhov marries Olga Knipper Première of Three Sisters at Moscow Art Theatre, with Olga Knipper as Masha. Works on ‘The Bishop’

  1902

  Sipyagin, Minister of Interior, assassinated. Gorky excluded from Academy of Sciences by Nicholas II Gorky’s The Lower Depths produced at Moscow Art Theatre Chekhov resigns from Academy of Sciences together with Korolenko in protest at exclusion of Gorky. Awarded Griboyedov Prize by Society of Dramatic Writers and Opera Composers for Three Sisters Completes ‘The Bishop’. Begins ‘The Bride’, his last story. Begins The Cherry Orchard

  1903

  Completion of Trans-Siberian Railway. Massacre of Jews at Kishinev pogrom Chekhov elected provisional president of Society of Lovers of Russian Literature Completes ‘The Bride’ and the first draft of The Cherry Orchard. Arrives in Moscow for Art Theatre rehearsal of The Cherry Orchard; strong disagreement with Stanislavsky over its interpretation

  1904

  Assassination of Pleve, Minister of Interior, by Socialist revolutionaries. War with Japan Chekhov dies of TB on 15 July at Badenweiler in the Black Forest (Germany) Première of The Cherry Orchard at Moscow Art Theatre

  NOTE ON TEXT

  Chekhov’s stories (like most of the literature of the time) were not first published as separate books, but appeared in magazines or newspapers such as New Times, or in the thick journals, chiefly Russian Thought. Some of the stories were subsequently published in separate selections, such as Tales and Stories (1894).

  In 1899 Chekhov made over the copyright of all his work (with the exception of the plays) to the publisher A. F. Marks in return for 75,000 roubles. Although the terms seemed favourable at the time, many of Chekhov’s friends felt he had been highly imprudent in signing the contract (Gorky unsuccessfully tried to get him to break the contract) as they considered the terms grossly inadequate. In addition the need to collate all the stories that had so far appeared in magazines and newspapers, together with meticulous editing and improving the material, taxed Chekhov sorely and was very time-consuming. The Marks edition was published in 1899–1901, in ten volumes, and reprinted in 1903. However, the main drawback of this edition was that the stories were not printed chronologically. The first scholarly edition, with full notes and commentary, was published in Moscow, 1944–51.

  Between 1973 and 1983, the definitive thirty-volume edition, Polnoye Sobraniye Sochineniy i Pisem (Complete Collected Works and Letters) was published in Moscow, with extensive commentaries by leading Soviet Chekhov scholars. It is on this edition that these translations are based.

  PATRONYMICS

  Russian names consist of first name, patronymic and surname, the patronymic or middle name being derived from the father’s first name. For example, Chekhov’s middle name, Pavlovich, derives from his father’s first name, Pavel. In formal speech first name and patronymic are usual: a servant addressing his master would use both first name and patronymic. But a master would use only a first name when talking to a servant.

  However, Chekhov does now and then use the direct equivalent of the English ‘Mr’ and ‘Mrs’. This is used to convey extreme formality; also, sarcasm on the part of the person using it – for example, when von Koren scoffs at Layevsky in ‘The Duel’. In both cases I have retained this form of address.

  The Steppe

  (THE STORY OF A JOURNEY)

  I

  Early one July morning a dilapidated springless brichka – one of those antediluvian carriages in which only merchants’ clerks, cattle dealers and impecunious priests travel in Russia these days – drove out of N—, the main town in Z— province and thundered along the post road. It rattled and squeaked at the slightest jolt – to the mournful accompaniment of a pail tied to the backboard. From these sounds alone and the pathetic leather strips dangling from its peeling chassis one could determine its great antiquity and fitness for the scrapheap.

  Two residents of N— were seated in the brichka: a clean-shaven, bespectacled merchant in a straw hat by the name of Ivan Ivanych Kuzmichov who looked more like a civil servant than a merchant, and Father Khristofor Siriysky, senior priest of St Nicholas’s Church at N—, a small, long-haired old man wearing a grey canvas caftan, a broad-brimmed top hat and a colourful embroidered belt. The first was deep in thought and kept shaking his head to ward off sleep. His customary, cold, businesslike expression was at odds with the good humour of one who had just bid his family farewell and had drunk a glass or two. The second was gazing at God’s world in wonderment with his small moist eyes and with a smile so broad that it seemed even to take in the brim of his hat; his face was red and had a chilled look. Both Kuzmichov and Father Khristofor were on their way to sell wool. Just a few moments before, as they said farewell to their
households, the two of them had heartily indulged themselves in cream doughnuts and despite the early hour had enjoyed a good drink… Both were in the best of moods.

  Besides the above-mentioned gentlemen and Deniska, the coachman, who was tirelessly whipping the pair of sprightly bays, there was one other passenger in the carriage – a nine-year-old boy with a face that was brown from the sun and wet with tears. This was Yegorushka, Kuzmichov’s nephew. With his uncle’s permission and Father Khristofor’s blessing, he was on his way to grammar school. His mother, Olga Ivanovna – Kuzmichov’s sister and a minor civil servant’s widow, who doted on educated people and refined company – had prevailed upon her brother to take Yegorushka on his wool-selling trip and deliver him to the school. And now this boy, with no idea where or why he was travelling, was sitting on the box next to Deniska, clinging to his elbow to stop falling off and bobbing up and down like a kettle on the hob. The rapid motion made his red shirt billow out from his back like a balloon and his new, coachman-style hat with its peacock’s feather was constantly slipping onto the nape of his neck. He felt the most abject of mortals and just wanted to cry.

  When the carriage passed the prison, Yegorushka looked at the guards slowly pacing up and down by the high white wall, at the small barred windows, at the glittering cross on the roof and he remembered how a week earlier, on the Day of Our Holy Lady of Kazan,1 he had gone with his mother to the prison chapel to celebrate the festival. And before that, at Easter, he had visited the prison with Lyudmila, the cook, and Deniska, and taken Easter cakes, eggs, pies and roast beef. The convicts had thanked them and crossed themselves – and one of them had given Yegorushka a pair of hand-made tin studs.

  The boy gazed at these familiar places as that hateful carriage flashed past them, leaving everything in its wake. After the prison, black, sooty smithies flew by, and then the snug green cemetery enclosed by a cobblestone wall. From behind this wall white crosses and tombstones nestling in the foliage of the cherry trees gaily peeped out and from the distance they resembled white patches. Yegorushka remembered that when the cherry trees were in bloom those white patches would merge with the blossoms in a sea of white. And when the cherries ripened the white tombstones and crosses would be flecked with crimson spots, like bloodstains. Under the cherry trees, behind the wall, Yegorushka’s father and his grandmother, Zinaida Danilovna, slept day and night. When Grandmother had died they put her in a long narrow coffin and placed two five-copeck pieces over her eyes that would not close. Before she died she had been very much alive and used to bring him poppy-seed rolls from the market, but now she just slept and slept…

  Beyond the cemetery were the smoking brickyards. Dense black smoke rose in great clouds from the squat reed-thatched roofs and drifted lazily upwards. The sky above the yards was murky and the big shadows cast by the clouds of smoke crept over the fields and across the road. Men and horses, covered in red dust, were moving about in the smoke by the roofs.

  The town came to an end with the brickyards and the open country began. For the last time Yegorushka looked back at the town, pressed his face to Deniska’s elbow and wept bitterly.

  ‘Still blubbering, eh? Little cry-baby!’ said Kuzmichov. ‘Mama’s darling’s snivelling again! If you don’t want to come you’d better stay behind. No one’s forcing you.’

  ‘Never mind, Yegor my boy, never mind,’ Father Khristofor said in a rapid patter. ‘Never mind, boy… Call on God. It’s for a good purpose you’re travelling, not an evil one. As they say, knowledge is light and ignorance is darkness. Verily it is so!’

  ‘Do you want to go back?’ asked Kuzmichov.

  ‘Ye-es I do!’ sobbed Yegorushka.

  ‘Then you should go back. No point in travelling all this way for nothing.’

  ‘Never mind, my boy, never mind,’ Father Khristofor continued. ‘You must call on God. Now, Lomonosov2 travelled like this with the fishermen, but then he became famous all over Europe. Intellect conjoined with faith brings forth fruit that is pleasing to God. What does the prayer say? “For the glory of our Creator, for the solace of our parents and for the benefit of church and country…” Yes, that’s so.’

  ‘But there’s different kinds of benefit,’ Kuzmichov said as he lit a cheap cigar. ‘There’s some who study for twenty years but still get no benefit from it.’

  ‘That does happen.’

  ‘Some folk benefit from learning, but there’s others that get their brains all in a muddle. My sister’s got no sense at all, she’s always trying to be so refined and she wants Yegorushka to be a scholar. But she doesn’t understand that with me in my line of business I could set him up for life. I’m telling you all this because if everyone became scholars or gentlemen there’d be no one left to do the trading or sowing. Everyone would starve to death.’

  ‘But if everyone started trading or sowing there’d be no one left to acquire learning.’

  Thinking that they had both said something weighty and compelling, Kuzmichov and Father Khristofor assumed solemn expressions and cleared their throats simultaneously. Having listened to their conversation and made nothing of it, Deniska shook his head, sat up and lashed both horses. There was silence.

  And meanwhile a wide, endless plain encircled by a chain of hills was stretching out before the travellers. Huddling together and peeping out from behind each other, these hills melted away into the rising ground which extended from the right of the road to the very horizon and vanished in the lilac distance: here you can travel on and on without ever being able to make out where the plain begins or ends… Behind, the sun was already looking out over the town and quietly, without any fuss, it was beginning its work. At first, a long way ahead, where sky met earth, close to small barrows and a windmill which from the distance resembled a tiny man waving his arms, a broad, bright yellow band stole over the ground. A moment later a similar bright band lit up a little closer, crept off to the right and enfolded the hills. Something warm touched Yegorushka’s back, a band of light that had crept up from behind darted between the carriage and horses and rushed away to meet other bands – and suddenly the whole wide plain cast off its early morning penumbra, smiled and sparkled with dew.

  Newly-mown rye, coarse steppe grass, spurge and wild hemp – everything that had been half-dead, reddish-brown and darkened by the intense heat, washed by the dew now and caressed by the sun – came to life, to blossom anew. Arctic petrels cheerfully cried as they skimmed over the road, gophers called to each other in the grass, from somewhere far to the left came the lapwings’ plaintive song. Frightened by the carriage, a covey of partridges took wing and flew towards the hills, softly trilling. Grasshoppers, cicadas, field-crickets and mole-crickets struck up their monotonous chirring in the grass.

  But after a short while the dew evaporated, the air became stagnant and once more the disappointed steppe took on its cheerless July aspect. The grass drooped and life stood still. The brownish-green, sun-baked hills, appearing lilac from afar with their soft muted tints, the plain and the hazy distance, and that overarching sky – so breathtakingly deep and transparent in the steppes where there are no forests or high mountains – now seemed endless and numb with anguish…

  How sultry, how forlorn! The carriage races along and all Yegorushka can see is that same sky, plain, hills… The music in the grass grows hushed. The petrels fly off, the partridges vanish. Rooks idly hover over the withered grass: all of them are alike and they make the steppe look even more monotonous.

  A kite skims the earth with an even sweep of its wings, suddenly stops in mid-air as if brooding over the tedium of existence and then flaps its wings and shoots off like an arrow over the steppe. Why did it fly and what did it need? That was a mystery. Far away the windmill waved its sails.

  Now and then brief glimpses of white skulls or boulders break the monotony; an ancient grey monumental stone or a parched willow with a dark-blue crow on its topmost branch looms up for a fleeting moment, a gopher darts across the road – and once
again tall weeds, hills, rooks flash before the eye.

  But now, thank heavens, a cart laden with sheaves of corn approaches. On the very top lies a young peasant girl. Sleepy and exhausted by the heat she raises her head to look at the people coming towards her. Deniska gapes at her, the bays stretch their muzzles towards the sheaves, the carriage screeches as it grazes the cart and prickly ears of corn brush Father Khristofor’s hat like a besom.

  ‘Can’t you see where you’re going, you fat lump!’ shouts Deniska. ‘Gawping like you bin stung by a bee!’

  The girl smiles sleepily, moves her lips and lies down again… And then a solitary poplar appears on a hill. God alone knows who planted it and why it was there. It was hard to take one’s eyes from its graceful trunk and green attire. Was that beautiful tree happy? Scorching heat in summer, biting frosts and blizzards in winter, terrifying nights in autumn when you see only pitch darkness and hear nothing but the wayward, angrily howling wind. But worst of all, you are alone, alone all your life…

  Beyond the poplar a bright yellow carpet of wheat stretched from the crest of the hill down to the road. Up on the hill the wheat had already been cut and gathered into sheaves, but at the bottom reaping was still in progress. Six reapers were standing side by side swishing their cheerfully gleaming scythes in unison. The movements of the women who were binding the sheaves and the gleaming scythes told of blistering, stifling heat. A black dog with its tongue hanging out ran from the reapers towards the carriage, probably meaning to bark, but stopped halfway and casually looked at Deniska as he threatened it with his whip: it was too hot for barking! One woman stood erect, clutched her tormented back with both hands and followed Yegorushka’s red calico shirt with her eyes. Whether it was the colour that pleased her or whether she was thinking of her children, she stood motionless for a long time watching him pass.