The Steppe and Other Stories, 1887-91

by Anton Chekhov

  ‘Well,’ he began, ‘I’ve settled all the business. We should have gone home today, but there’s still a problem with Yegorushka. We must find him a place to live. My sister told me she has a friend around here, Nastasya Petrovna. Perhaps she could take him in as a boarder.’

  He rummaged in his pocketbook, took out a crumpled letter and read, ‘ “Little Nizhny Street, to Nastasya Petrovna Toskunova, at her own house.” We must go and see her right away. Oh, it’s a real nuisance!’

  Shortly after breakfast Uncle Ivan and Yegorushka left the inn.

  ‘It’s a real nuisance!’ Uncle muttered. ‘You just stick to me like a leech, damn you! All you and your mother want is book-learning and to be nice and refined, but you both give me no end of trouble!’

  When they crossed the yard the wagons and drivers had disappeared – early that morning they had all gone down to the quayside. In a far corner stood that familiar dark shape – the carriage. The bays were standing nearby, eating their oats.

  ‘Goodbye, brichka!’ thought Yegorushka.

  First they had a long walk uphill along a wide avenue, then across a large market square where Uncle Ivan asked a policeman the way to Little Nizhny Street.

  ‘Well now,’ grinned the policeman. ‘That’s miles from ’ere, over by the commons!’

  On the way some cabs passed them, but Uncle allowed himself such extravagances as cabs only in exceptional circumstances and on major holidays. He and Yegorushka walked for a long time along paved streets, then along unpaved streets with footpaths and finally along streets that were neither paved nor with footpaths. When their legs and tongues had got them to Little Nizhny Street both were red in the face and, after removing their hats, they wiped away the sweat.

  ‘Can you please tell me,’ said Uncle Ivan, addressing a little old man sitting on a bench by a gate, ‘where Nastasya Petrovna Toskunova’s house is?’

  ‘There ain’t no Toskunova round ’ere,’ replied the old man after a pause for thought. ‘Perhaps it’s Timoshenko you be wanting?’

  ‘No, Toskunova.’

  ‘Sorry, ain’t no Toskunovas round ’ere…’

  Uncle Ivan shrugged his shoulders and trudged on.

  ‘You’re wasting your time!’ the old man shouted after him. ‘If I says there ain’t none, that means there ain’t none!!’

  ‘Tell me, dearie,’ Uncle Ivan said, turning to an old woman on the corner selling seeds and pears from a tray, ‘where’s Nastasya Petrovna Toskunova’s house?’

  The old woman looked at him in surprise and laughed.

  ‘Can she be living in a house of her own now?’ she asked. ‘Heavens, it’s nearly eight years since she married her daughter off and left the house to her son-in-law. It’s the son-in-law that lives there now.’

  And her eyes seemed to be saying: ‘How could those idiots not know a simple fact like that?’

  ‘But where is she living now?’ asked Uncle Ivan.

  ‘Heavens!’ repeated the old woman in amazement, clasping her hands. ‘She’s been in lodgings for ages. It’s eight years since she made her house over to her son-in-law. Honestly!’

  Most probably she was waiting for Uncle Ivan to be similarly surprised and exclaim: ‘But that’s not possible!’ but he asked very calmly, ‘So, where does she live?’

  The fruit-seller rolled up her sleeves, pointed with her bare arm and shrilled, ‘Now, go straight on and on till you come to a little red house. You’ll see an alley to your left. Go down it and it’s the third gate on the right.’

  Uncle Ivan and Yegorushka reached the little red house, turned left into the alley and headed for the third gate on the right. On both sides of the very ancient gate stretched a grey fence with wide cracks in it. The right-hand section listed heavily forwards, threatening to collapse altogether, whilst the left sloped back towards the yard. The gate was still upright, but was apparently deliberating which would be more convenient – to fall backwards or forwards. Uncle Ivan opened the wicket-gate and both he and Yegorushka saw a large yard overgrown with tall weeds and burdock. About a hundred steps from the gate stood a red-roofed cottage with green shutters. A plump woman with her sleeves rolled up and her apron outspread was standing in the middle of the yard. She was scattering something on the ground and shouting in a shrill, piercing voice like the fruit-seller’s, ‘Chick, chick, chick!’

  Behind her sat a ginger dog with pointed ears. On seeing the visitors it started barking tenor (all ginger dogs bark tenor).

  ‘Who do you want?’ shouted the woman, screening her eyes from the sun with one hand.

  ‘Good morning!’ Uncle Ivan shouted back, waving the ginger dog away with his stick. ‘Tell me, does Nastasya Petrovna Toskunova live here?’

  ‘She does. What do you want with her?’

  Uncle Ivan and Yegorushka went over to her. She eyed them suspiciously and repeated, ‘What do you want with her?’

  ‘Perhaps you are Nastasya Petrovna?’

  ‘Yes, I am!’

  ‘Very pleased to meet you. Well now, your old friend Olga Ivanovna Knyazeva sends her regards. And perhaps you remember me – I’m her brother Ivan. We’re all from the village of N—. You were born in our house and then you got married…’

  There was silence. The plump woman stared vacantly at Uncle Ivan as if she neither believed nor understood. Then she flushed and threw up her hands. The oats spilled from her apron and tears spurted from her eyes.

  ‘Olga Ivanovna!’ she shrieked, breathless with excitement. ‘My sweet darling! Oh, heaven save us, why am I standing here like an idiot? My dear little beautiful angel!’

  She embraced Yegorushka, made his face wet with her tears and then broke down completely.

  ‘Heavens above!’ she said, wringing her hands. ‘Olga’s little boy! What joy! He’s his mother all over, the spitting image! But why are you standing out in the yard? Please come inside.’

  Crying, gasping for breath and talking as she went, she hurried into the house. The visitors wearily followed her.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s not very tidy in here,’ she said, ushering the visitors into a small stuffy room filled with icons and flowerpots.

  ‘Oh, goodness gracious!… Vasya!… At least open the shutters! My little angel! He’s so adorable! And fancy me not knowing that Olga had such a dear little boy!’

  When she had calmed down and grown used to her visitors, Uncle Ivan asked to speak to her in private. Yegorushka went into the next room where there was a sewing-machine, a cage with a starling in the window and as many icons and flowers as in the parlour. A little girl, sunburnt and as chubby-cheeked as Titus and wearing a clean cotton-print frock, was standing stock-still by the sewing-machine. She stared at Yegorushka without blinking and evidently felt very awkward. Yegorushka looked at her in silence.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  The girl moved her lips and seemed about to cry.

  ‘Atka…’

  (This meant Katka.)

  ‘So, he’ll live with you,’ Uncle Ivan whispered in the parlour, ‘if you’ll be so kind, and we’ll pay you ten roubles a month. He’s not a spoilt boy, he’s very well-behaved…’

  ‘I don’t know what to say, Ivan Ivanych!’ whimpered Nastasya Petrovna. ‘Ten roubles a month is good money, but taking in someone else’s child really scares me! Supposing he falls ill or something?…’

  When Yegorushka was called back to the parlour Uncle Ivan was already standing hat in hand and saying goodbye.

  ‘What do you say then? So… he can stay with you now… Well, goodbye! You’re going to stay here, Yegorushka,’ he added, turning to his nephew. ‘Behave yourself and do as Nastasya Petrovna says… Goodbye… I’ll call back tomorrow.’

  Uncle Ivan left and Nastasya Petrovna hugged Yegorushka again, calling him a little angel and tearfully began to lay the table. Within three minutes Yegorushka was sitting next to her, answering her endless questions and eating rich, hot cabbage soup.

  That evening he was a
gain sitting at the same table, propping his head on his hands as he listened to Nastasya Petrovna. Laughing and crying, she told him about his mother’s younger days, about her marriage, her children… A cricket chirped in the stove and the lamp-burner faintly droned. The mistress of the house spoke in a low voice and every now and then dropped her thimble in her excitement. Every time she did so her granddaughter Katya would crawl after it under the table and stay there a long time, probably to look at Yegorushka’s feet. Yegorushka listened and began to feel drowsy as he scrutinized the old woman’s face, the wart with little hairs sticking out, the tear-stains. And he felt sad, so very sad. They made up a bed for him on a trunk and told him that if he felt hungry during the night he should go into the passage and help himself to some chicken under a plate on the windowsill.

  Next morning Uncle Ivan and Father Khristofor came to say goodbye. Nastasya Petrovna was delighted and was about to prepare the samovar when Uncle Ivan, who was in a great hurry, waved his hand dismissively and said, ‘We’ve no time for tea and sugar and all that! We’re leaving right away.’

  Before the farewells everyone sat in silence for a minute. Nastasya Petrovna sighed deeply and looked at the icons with tearful eyes.

  ‘Well,’ began Uncle Ivan, getting up, ‘so you’ll be staying here…’

  That businesslike detachment suddenly vanished from his face, he flushed slightly, smiled sadly and said, ‘Now, mind you study and don’t forget your mother and do what Nastasya Petrovna Toskunova tells you. If you study hard, Yegorushka, I won’t leave you in the lurch.’

  He drew a purse from his pocket, turned his back to Yegorushka, fumbled for a while among his small change, found a ten-copeck piece and handed it to him. Father Khristofor sighed and without hurrying gave his blessing to Yegorushka:

  ‘In the name of the Father, the Son and Holy Ghost… Study, my boy… work hard. If I die, remember me in your prayers. Here, take these ten copecks, it’s a present from me as well.’

  Yegorushka kissed his hand and burst into tears. Something deep down whispered that he would never see that old man again.

  ‘Nastasya Petrovna, I’ve applied to the school already,’ Uncle Ivan said, as if a corpse were laid out in the room. ‘On 7 August you must take him for the examinations… Well, goodbye now. God be with you. Goodbye, Yegorushka.’

  ‘You could at least have stayed for some tea,’ groaned Nastasya Petrovna.

  Through the tears that blinded his eyes Yegorushka could not see Uncle and Father Khristofor leave. He rushed to the window, but they were already out of the yard and the ginger dog that had just been barking ran back from the gate with an air of having fulfilled its duty. Not knowing why, Yegorushka leapt up and flew out of the house. When he was outside the gate Uncle Ivan and Father Khristofor were already rounding the corner, the first swinging his stick with the crook, the second his staff. Yegorushka felt that with these two men all he had lived through until then had vanished forever, like smoke. He sank exhausted onto the bench, shedding bitter tears as he greeted that new, unknown life that was just beginning for him.

  What would that life be like?

  Panpipes

  Exhausted by the stifling air in the fir plantation and covered in cobwebs and fir-needles, Meliton Shishkin, the bailiff from Dementyev’s farm, was wearily making his way, rifle in hand, to the edge of the wood. His dog, Lady, a cross between mongrel and setter, unusually thin and heavy with young, her wet tail between her legs, was plodding behind her master and trying her hardest not to get her nose pricked. The morning was dreary and overcast. A heavy spray fell from the trees that were thinly veiled in mist, and from the bracken, and the damp wood gave off a sharp odour of decay.

  Ahead, where the plantation ended, stood silver birches and between their trunks and branches the misty horizon was visible. Beyond the birches someone was playing a rustic shepherd’s pipe. The player produced no more than five or six notes, lazily dragging them out with no attempt at a tune – and yet in that shrill piping there was something utterly joyless and mournful.

  When the plantation thinned out and small firs mingled with young birches, Meliton caught sight of the herd. Hobbled horses, cows and sheep wandered among the bushes, making the twigs crackle underfoot as they sniffed the grass in the wood. At the edge of the wood, leaning against a wet birch tree, stood an old shepherd, gaunt, bareheaded and wearing a coarse tattered smock. Deep in thought, he was gazing at the ground and to all appearances was playing his pipe quite mechanically.

  ‘Good morning, gaffer! God be with you,’ Meliton greeted him in a thin, hoarse voice which did not in the least match his enormous stature and large fleshy face. ‘You’re pretty good on those pipes, aren’t you! Whose herd are you minding?’

  ‘The Artamonovs,’ the shepherd replied grudgingly and tucked the pipes away in the bosom of his smock.

  ‘Then this wood belongs to the Artamonovs, too?’ Meliton asked, looking around. ‘Well, how about that – so it does! I almost got lost… Scratched my face all over on those brambles, I did.’

  He sat down on the damp earth and started rolling a cigarette from a scrap of newspaper.

  Like his thin reedy voice everything about this man was small – his smile, his tiny eyes, his little buttons and his cap perilously perched on his greasy, close-cropped head – and clashed with his height, his girth and his fleshy face. When he spoke and smiled there was something womanish, timid, submissive about his smooth-shaven podgy face and his whole appearance.

  ‘Lord save us – what weather!’ he said, rolling his head. ‘They haven’t got the oats in yet and this darned rain seems to have hired itself out for the autumn!’

  The shepherd looked up at the drizzling sky, the wood and the bailiff’s sodden clothes, thought for a moment and didn’t reply.

  ‘It’s been like it all summer,’ Meliton sighed. ‘Bad for the peasants – and no joy for the masters either!’

  Again the shepherd looked up at the sky, pondered and then said, slowly and deliberately, as if chewing every word, ‘Everything’s going one way… we must expect the worst.’

  ‘And how are things here?’ Meliton asked, lighting his cigarette. ‘Seen any coveys of grouse on Artamonov Heath?’

  The shepherd did not answer immediately. Again he glanced at the sky and to both sides, reflected for a moment and blinked. Evidently he attached no small importance to his words and to reinforce them tried to stretch them out with a certain degree of solemnity. His face displayed all the angularity and gravity of old age, and the saddle-shaped furrow running across it and his upwardly curling nostrils gave it a cunning, mocking look.

  ‘No, can’t say that I ’ave,’ he replied. ‘Yeryomka, our gamekeeper, said he sent up a covey on Elijah’s Day1 near Pustoshye, but I dare say he was lying. Ain’t many birds about…’

  ‘No, my friend, not many at all… it’s the same everywhere! If you look at it practically the hunting’s woeful, pitiful. There’s just no game at all and what there is isn’t worth soiling your hands for – it’s not even fully-grown! So tiny it makes you feel real sorry.’

  Meliton grinned and waved dismissively. ‘What’s happening in the world’s enough to make you laugh – and that’s all! Birds are so daft nowadays they sit on their eggs late and there’s some that aren’t off them come St Peter’s Day. Oh yes!’

  ‘Everything’s heading the same way,’ said the shepherd, raising his head. ‘Last year there weren’t much game and this year there’s even less. You mark my words – in another five years there won’t be any at all. As I see it, ’fore long there won’t be birds of any kind left – let alone game-birds.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Meliton after pausing for thought. ‘That’s true.’

  The shepherd laughed bitterly and shook his head.

  ‘I’m just flabbergasted!’ he exclaimed. ‘What’s become of ’em all? Twenty years ago, as I remember, there were geese here, cranes, ducks and black grouse – the place was swarming with ’em! The gent
s used to go out shooting and all you’d hear was bang-bang, bang-bang! There was no end of woodcock, snipe and curlews, and little teal and pipers was as common as starlings or sparrows, let’s say – just swarms of ’em! And where have they all gone? Nowadays you don’t even see birds of prey. Eagles, falcons, eagle-owls – all wiped out! There’s not many beasts of any kind left. These days, my friend, you can count yourself lucky if you see a wolf or a fox, let alone a bear or a mink. Time was when there were even elk! For forty years I’ve been keeping an eye on God’s works – year in year out – and as I see it everything’s heading one way.’

  ‘What way?’

  ‘Towards what’s bad, my lad. Towards ruination, it seems. The time’s come for God’s world to perish.’

  The old man put on his cap and began to gaze at the sky.

  ‘It’s a real shame!’ he sighed after a short silence. ‘Lord, what a crying shame! Of course, it’s all God’s will – it wasn’t us who made the world. All the same, my friend, it’s a terrible shame. If a single tree withers away or, let’s say, one of your cows dies, you feel sorry. So what will it be like, my friend, if the whole world goes to wrack and ruin? There is so much that’s good, Lord Jesus Christ! The sun, the sky, the woods, the rivers, living creatures – they’ve all been created and fashioned so they fit in with each other. Everything has its allotted task and knows its place. And all this must perish!’

  A sad smile passed over the shepherd’s face and his eyelids trembled.

  ‘You say that the world’s heading for ruin,’ Meliton said thoughtfully. ‘Maybe the world will end soon, but you can hardly take just birds as a sign.’

  ‘It’s not only birds,’ said the shepherd. ‘It’s beasts as well – cattle, bees and fish… If you don’t believe me ask any old man. Every one of them’ll tell you that fish ain’t anything like what they used to be. Every year there’s less and less fish in the seas, lakes and rivers. Here in the Peschanka, as I remember, you could catch two-foot pike and there was burbot and ide and bream – all goodly-sized fish. But now you can thank your lucky stars if you catch a small pike or a six-inch perch. There’s not even decent ruff. Every year it gets worse and worse and soon there won’t be any fish at all! As for the rivers – they’ll dry up, most likely!’