The Steppe and Other Stories, 1887-91

by Anton Chekhov

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Near the old rampart.’

  She walked rapidly down the street and then turned up a side-street leading to the mountains. It was dark. Pale patches of light from illuminated windows lay here and there on the road and she felt like a fly, perpetually falling into an ink-pot and then crawling out again into the light. Kirilin was following her. At one spot he stumbled, nearly fell and burst out laughing.

  ‘He’s drunk,’ Nadezhda thought. ‘So what… So what… So be it.’

  Achmianov had also quickly taken leave of the company and had followed Nadezhda to invite her to go boating with him. He went up to her house and peered across the fence. The windows were wide open and there were no lights. ‘Nadezhda!’ he called. A minute passed. He called out again.

  ‘Who’s there?’ – it was Olga.

  ‘Is Nadezhda home?’

  ‘No, hasn’t come back yet.’

  ‘Strange… very strange,’ Achmianov thought, beginning to feel terribly anxious. ‘She was on her way home…’

  He went along the boulevard, down the street and then he looked into Sheshkovsky’s windows. Layevsky was sitting at the table, without a frock-coat, staring at his cards.

  ‘That’s strange, most strange…’ Achmianov muttered and he felt ashamed when he remembered Layevsky’s fit. ‘If she’s not at home, then where is she?’

  Again he went over to Nadezhda’s house and looked at the dark windows. ‘I’ve been tricked,’ he thought, remembering that when they had met at midday at the Bityugovs she had promised to go boating with him in the evening.

  The windows in Kirilin’s house were dark and a policeman sat fast asleep on the bench by the gate. One glance at the windows and the policeman and everything became clear to Achmianov. He decided to go home and started off, but once again found he was near Nadezhda’s flat. He sat down on a bench there and took his hat off; his head seemed to be burning with jealousy and injured pride.

  The parish church clock struck only twice every twenty-four hours: at noon and midnight. Soon after it had struck midnight there came the sound of hurried footsteps.

  ‘So it’s at Myuridov’s again, tomorrow evening,’ Achmianov heard and he recognized Kirilin’s voice. ‘Eight o’clock. Until then, Madam.’

  Nadezhda came into sight near the garden fence. Not noticing Achmianov on the bench, she flitted past like a ghost, opened the gate and entered the house, leaving the gate open. In her room she lit a candle and quickly undressed. But she did not lie on her bed, but fell on her knees in front of a chair, embraced it and pressed her forehead to it.

  Layevsky came home after two in the morning.

  XV

  Layevsky had decided not to tell her the pack of lies all at once, but gradually, and the next day, after one o’clock, he went to Samoylenko’s to ask for the money that would enable him to travel that Saturday, without fail. After yesterday’s fit, which had added a further sharp feeling of shame to his already deeply depressed state of mind, staying any longer in that town was out of the question. If Samoylenko insisted on his conditions, he thought, then he might possibly agree to them and take the money. Tomorrow he could tell him at the very last moment, just when he was about to leave, that Nadezhda had refused to go with him. That evening he could try and persuade her that it was all in her best interests. But if Samoylenko, obviously under von Koren’s influence, refused point-blank to give him the money or stipulated new conditions, then he could possibly leave for New Athos or Novorossiysk that same day on some cargo ship, or even a sailing-boat. From there he would have to swallow his pride and send his mother a telegram and stay there until she sent him his fare.

  When he called at Samoylenko’s he found von Koren in the drawing-room. The zoologist had just arrived for lunch and as usual he had opened the album and was studying pictures of men in top hats and ladies in lace caps.

  ‘What a nuisance,’ Layevsky thought on seeing him. ‘He might get in my way.’

  ‘Good morning,’ he said.

  ‘Good morning,’ von Koren replied, without looking up.

  ‘Is Samoylenko home?’

  ‘Yes, he’s in the kitchen.’

  Layevsky went towards the kitchen, but as he looked through the doorway he saw Samoylenko was busy making a salad; he went back to the drawing-room and sat down. He had always felt ill at ease with the zoologist and now he was afraid of having to talk about the fit. More than a minute passed in silence. Suddenly von Koren looked up at Layevsky and asked, ‘How do you feel after what happened yesterday?’

  ‘Excellent,’ Layevsky replied, turning red. ‘It was really nothing very much.’

  ‘Before yesterday I’d always thought that only ladies had hysterics, that’s why I supposed at first you had St Vitus’s dance.’

  Layevsky smiled obsequiously and thought, ‘How tactless of him. He knows only too well how bad I’m feeling.’

  ‘Yes, strange thing to happen,’ he said, smiling. ‘I’ve been laughing about it all morning. The curious thing about hysterics is that you know they’re ridiculous, you laugh deep down about them, yet they still make you cry. In this neurotic age we’re slaves of our nerves. They are our masters and do what they like with us. Civilization has doublecrossed us there!’

  As Layevsky went on he was not pleased that von Koren was listening to him seriously and attentively, watching him intently, without blinking an eyelid, as if he were an object for study. And he was annoyed with himself for being totally unable to drive that obsequious smile from his face, despite his dislike for von Koren.

  ‘However, I must confess,’ he went on, ‘there were some more immediate reasons for the hysterics, and fairly substantial ones at that. My health has recently had a severe shake-up. Add to that boredom, eternal poverty, lack of congenial company with mutual interests… My position is worse than a governor’s.’

  ‘Yes, your position is hopeless,’ von Koren said.

  These calm, cold words, partly mocking, partly prophetic, were insulting for Layevsky. As he recalled the contemptuous, disgusted way the zoologist had looked at him the day before, he paused for a moment and then asked, no longer smiling, ‘And how did you find out about my position?’

  ‘You mentioned it yourself only just now, and your friends take such a burning interest in you it’s all one hears about all day long.’

  ‘Which friends? Do you mean Samoylenko?’

  ‘Yes, he’s one.’

  ‘I’d prefer it if Samoylenko and all the rest didn’t worry about me so much.’

  ‘Here’s Samoylenko now; ask him to stop worrying about you so much.’

  ‘I don’t like your tone of voice,’ Layevsky muttered, as if he realized only now that the zoologist hated and despised him, was taunting him and that he was his most deadly, most implacable enemy. ‘Please reserve that tone of voice for someone else,’ he said softly, without the strength to speak out loud for the hatred that was already choking his heart and chest – just like yesterday’s urge to laugh.

  In came Samoylenko, without his frock-coat, sweaty and crimson-faced from the hot kitchen. ‘Oh, so you’re here,’ he said. ‘Hullo, my dear chap. Had lunch? Now don’t be shy, tell me if you’ve eaten.’

  ‘Alexander,’ Layevsky said, standing up, ‘if I came to you with an intimate request, it doesn’t mean I’ve freed you from your obligation to be discreet and respect other people’s secrets.’

  ‘What’s wrong, then?’ Samoylenko said in astonishment.

  ‘If you don’t have the money,’ Layevsky went on, raising his voice and excitedly shifting from one foot to the other, ‘then don’t lend me any, refuse me. But why do you have to spread it all over town that my position’s hopeless and so on? I cannot bear these acts of charity, good turns from people who talk big and in the end give you nothing! You can boast to your heart’s content about your good deeds, but no one ever gave you the right to reveal my secrets!’

  ‘What secrets?’ Samoylenko asked in bewil
derment, losing his temper. ‘If you’ve come here for a slanging-match then you’d better leave now. Why don’t you come back later?’

  He remembered the rule, that when one is angry with a close friend, counting mentally up to a hundred has a calming effect. And he started counting, quickly.

  ‘I beg you not to concern yourself about me!’ Layevsky went on. ‘Don’t take any notice. And what business is it of anyone’s who I am and what kind of life I lead? Yes, I want to get away! Yes, I run up debts, drink, live with another man’s wife. I have fits, I’m a vulgar person, and I’m not as profound as some other people. But whose business is that? You should respect individuals!’

  ‘Forgive me, my friend,’ Samoylenko said when he had counted to thirty-five, ‘but…’

  ‘Respect individuals!’ Layevsky interrupted. ‘To hell with all this bitchiness, all these “oohs” and “ahs”, this constant hounding, eavesdropping, this friendly sympathizing! They lend me money and then subject me to conditions as if I were a child! I’m treated like God knows what! I don’t want anything!’

  Layevsky started shouting and he staggered from agitation, afraid he might have another fit. The thought, ‘So I shan’t be leaving this Saturday’, flashed through his mind. ‘I don’t want anything! All I ask, if it’s all the same with you, is to be spared this supervision. I’m not a child, I’m not insane and I ask you to end this surveillance!’

  The deacon entered and when he saw pale-faced Layevsky waving his arms and addressing these strange words to Prince Vorontsov’s portrait, he stood by the door, as if rooted to the spot.

  ‘This continual prying into my soul,’ Layevsky went on, ‘offends my dignity as a human being and I ask these volunteer sleuths to stop spying! It’s enough!’

  ‘What… what did you say?’ Samoylenko asked – having counted to a hundred he grew crimson-faced as he walked over to Layevsky.

  ‘It’s enough!’ Layevsky repeated, gasping for breath as he picked his cap up.

  ‘I’m a Russian gentleman, doctor and colonel,’ Samoylenko said slowly and deliberately. ‘I have never spied on anyone and I won’t allow myself to be insulted!’ he shouted in a broken voice, laying particular stress on the last word. ‘So will you shut up!’

  The deacon, who had never seen the doctor look so magnificent, proud, crimson-faced and fearsome, put his hand over his mouth, ran out into the hall and stood roaring with laughter. As though he were peering through a mist, Layevsky saw von Koren stand up, put his hands in his trouser pockets and stay in that position, as if waiting to see what would happen next. The calmness of his posture struck Layevsky as provocative and insulting in the extreme.

  ‘Please take back what you just said!’ Samoylenko shouted.

  Layevsky, who could no longer remember what he had said, replied, ‘Leave me in peace! I want nothing! All I want is for you and these German–Jewish immigrants to leave me in peace! If not, I shall take steps! I will fight!’

  ‘Now I understand,’ von Koren said as he rose from the table. ‘Before he departs, Mr Layevsky wishes to amuse himself with a little duelling. I can accord him that pleasure. Mr Layevsky, I accept your challenge.’

  ‘Challenge?’ Layevsky softly enunciated as he went over to the zoologist and looked hatefully at his dark forehead and curly hair. ‘Challenge? If that’s what you want. I hate you! I hate you!’

  ‘Absolutely delighted. First thing tomorrow morning, near Kerbalay’s, please yourself about the details. And now beat it!’

  ‘I hate you!’ Layevsky said softly, breathing heavily. ‘I’ve hated you for a long time. A duel! Yes!’

  ‘Get him out of here, Alexander, or I shall have to leave,’ von Koren said. ‘He might bite me.’

  Von Koren’s cool tone calmed the doctor. Suddenly he recovered his senses and he gripped Layevsky around the waist, muttering in an affectionate voice that shook with emotion as he led him away from the zoologist. ‘My friends… my good, kind friends… You’ve just got a little excited, let’s call it a day… it’s enough. My friends…’

  When he heard that soft, friendly voice Layevsky felt that something quite unprecedented and monstrous had happened to him, as if he’d nearly been run over by a train. He was close to tears, waved his arm in capitulation and ran out of the room.

  ‘God, how dreadful to be the target of someone’s hatred and to make the most pathetic, despicable, helpless spectacle of oneself in front of him!’ he thought soon after as he sat in the Pavilion. And he felt as if the feeling of hatred that this man had just stirred in him had left a deposit of rust on his body. ‘God, how idiotic!’

  Some brandy with cold water cheered him up. He clearly pictured von Koren’s calm, arrogant face, the expression he had worn the day before, his carpet-like shirt, his voice, his white hands, and an intense, passionate, all-consuming hatred welled up inside him and sought gratification. He imagined knocking von Koren to the ground and stamping on him. Down to the very last details, he recalled everything that had happened and was amazed how he could have smiled so obsequiously at that nonentity, how he could have valued the opinions of those obscure little nobodies living in a wretched dump that apparently was not even on the map and which no self-respecting Petersburger had ever heard of. If that nasty little town were suddenly to vanish or burn down, the telegram bearing this news would have been read in central Russia with the same boredom as any advert for second-hand furniture. Killing von Koren tomorrow, sparing his life, did not matter a damn, it was equally pointless and boring. He would wound him in the leg or arm, then have a good laugh at him; just as an insect with a torn-off leg loses its way in the grass, so he would be lost with his mute suffering in that sea of nonentities, all as insignificant as himself.

  Layevsky went to Sheshkovsky’s, told him everything and invited him to act as second. Then they both went off to the local postmaster’s, invited him to be a second and stayed for lunch, over which they cracked a great deal of jokes and had a good laugh together. Layevsky poked fun at himself, saying he hardly knew how to fire a pistol and dubbing himself ‘Royal Marksman’ and ‘William Tell’.

  ‘That man must be taught a lesson,’ he said.

  After lunch they sat down to cards. Layevsky joined in, drank wine, and reflected how stupid and senseless duels were, all things considered, as they never solved any problem, but only aggravated them; all the same, at times there was no other course of action. For example, he couldn’t report von Koren to the Justice of the Peace for that kind of thing! And the impending duel seemed all the more attractive, as after it he could not possibly stay any longer in that town. He grew slightly tipsy, amused himself at cards and felt everything was fine.

  But when the sun set and it became dark, he was overcome by uneasiness. This was not fear of death, since while he was lunching and playing cards he felt confident somehow that the duel would come to nothing. It was fear of the unknown, of what was bound to happen the following morning for the first time in his life, and fear of the approaching night… He knew the night would be long and sleepless, and that not only would he have to think of von Koren and his hatred, but about that mountain of lies he would have to surmount and which he had neither the skill nor strength to avoid. It was as though he had suddenly been taken ill. All at once he lost interest in the cards and the other players, fidgeted and asked if he could go home. He wanted to be in bed as soon as possible, to lie quite still and to prepare his thoughts for the night that lay ahead. Sheshkovsky and the postmaster saw him home, then went to von Koren’s to discuss the duel.

  Layevsky met Achmianov near his flat. The young man was out of breath and excited.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you, Ivan Andreich!’ he said. ‘Please come quickly.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘A gentleman you don’t know has some very urgent business with you. He begs you to drop in for just a minute, there’s something he wants to discuss with you… It’s a matter of life and death to him…’

  In his excite
ment Achmianov pronounced these words with a strong Armenian accent, making two syllables out of ‘life’.

  ‘Who is he?’ Layevsky asked.

  ‘He told me not to reveal his name.’

  ‘Say I’m too busy at the moment. I’ll come tomorrow, if that suits him.’

  ‘But that’s impossible,’ Achmianov said, horrified. ‘He wants to tell you something that is so very important to you… very important! It will be disastrous if you don’t go.’

  ‘That’s strange,’ Layevsky muttered, unable to understand why Achmianov should be so worked up and what manner of secrets could be lurking in that dull, nasty little town that no one wanted. ‘That’s strange,’ he repeated thoughtfully. ‘All right, let’s go. It’s all the same to me.’

  Achmianov quickly went on ahead and Layevsky followed. They went down the main street, then an alley.

  ‘What a bore,’ Layevsky said.

  ‘Any moment now, we’re nearly there.’

  Near the old rampart they went along a narrow alley between two fenced patches of waste ground; then they entered a kind of large courtyard and went over to a small house.

  ‘That’s Myuridov’s, isn’t it?’ Layevsky asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But why are we going in the back way? I don’t understand. We could have come in from the street, it’s quicker.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  Layevsky found it odd too when Achmianov led him round to the back door and waved his hand at him, as if asking him to step softly and not make a sound.

  ‘In here, in here,’ Achmianov said, cautiously opening a door and tiptoeing into the hall. ‘Quietly please, I beg you… they might hear.’

  He listened hard, took a deep breath and whispered, ‘Open this door and go in… Don’t be scared.’

  Bewildered, Layevsky opened the door and entered a room with a low ceiling and curtained windows. A candle stood on the table.

  ‘Who do you want?’ someone asked in the next room. ‘Is that you, Myuridov?’

  Layevsky went into the room and saw Kirilin, with Nadezhda beside him. He didn’t hear what was said to him, moved backwards and didn’t realize when he was back in the street again. His hatred for von Koren and his anxiety had completely disappeared. On his way home he clumsily waved his right arm and carefully inspected the ground under his feet, trying to walk where it was smooth. Back in his study he paced up and down, rubbing his hands together and awkwardly jerking his shoulders and neck, as if his waistcoat and shirt were too tight. Then he lit a candle and sat down at the table.