Ward No. 6 and Other Stories, 1892-1895

by Anton Chekhov

  The actor told Olga Ivanovna that with her flaxen hair and in her wedding dress she bore a strong resemblance to a graceful cherry tree in spring when it is festooned with delicate white blossoms.

  ‘Now, just you listen!’ Olga Ivanovna told him, gripping his arm. ‘How did all this happen so suddenly? Well, just listen, listen… You should know that Father worked in the same hospital as Dymov. When poor Father became ill Dymov sat at his bedside for days and nights. Such self-sacrifice! Now listen, Ryabovsky… And you too, Mr Writer – you’ll find it most interesting. Come closer… Such self-sacrifice, such genuine concern! I too didn’t sleep and stayed with Father. And then – what do you know! That fine young man had fallen for me! My Dymov was head over heels! It’s true, fate can play such strange tricks. Well, after Father died he would come and visit me now and then. Or we’d meet in the street. Then, one fine evening – crash! bang! – he proposes, right out of the blue! I cried all night and I too fell madly in love. And now, as you see, I’m lawful wedded Mrs Dymov. Don’t you think there’s something brawny, something powerful and bear-like about him? Just now he’s three-quarters turned towards us and the light’s wrong, but when he turns round just look at that forehead! Ryabovsky, what do you say to that forehead? Dymov! We’re talking about you!’ she shouted to her husband. ‘Come here. Hold out your honest hand to Ryabovsky… That’s it. I want you two to be friends.’ With a good-humoured, naïve smile Dymov offered his hand to Ryabovsky.

  ‘Very pleased to meet you,’ he said. ‘There was a Ryabovsky in my last year at university. Could he be a relative of yours?’

  II

  Olga Ivanovna was twenty-two years old, Dymov thirty-one. After their marriage they settled down to a beautiful life. Olga Ivanovna covered the drawing-room walls with sketches – her own and other people’s, framed and unframed – and she filled every inch of space around the grand piano with a picturesque array of Chinese parasols, easels, brightly coloured bits of material, daggers, small busts and photographs. She pasted cheap folksy prints on the dining-room walls, hung up bast sandals and sickles, and stood a rake and a scythe in one corner to create an effect truly à la Russe. To give their bedroom the appearance of a cave, she draped the ceiling and walls with dark cloth, hung a Venetian lantern over the beds and stationed a figure with a halberd by the door. Everyone thought that the newly-weds had created an awfully sweet nook for themselves.

  Every day Olga Ivanovna rose at eleven o’clock and played the piano, but if it was sunny she painted in oils. After twelve she would drive to her dressmaker’s. As both she and Dymov were very hard up, she and her dressmaker had to resort to all kinds of cunning devices so that she could always appear in new dresses to dazzling effect. Very often, from old dyed frocks or worthless scraps of tulle, lace, plush and silk there would emerge something miraculous and truly seductive – a dream of a dress. From the dressmaker Olga would usually drive to some actress friend to discover all the theatre news and at the same time try and get a ticket out of her for a first night or benefit performance. From the actress she would drive to some artist’s studio or to an exhibition of paintings and then on to one of her celebrity friends to invite him home, to return a visit or simply for a chat. Everywhere she was given a joyful, friendly welcome, being assured that she was absolutely wonderful, charming, extra special. Those of her male friends whom she considered ‘celebrated’, great men, treated her as one of themselves, as an equal: with her talent, taste and brains, all unanimously predicted a brilliant future – as long as she didn’t overstretch herself. She sang, played the piano, painted in oils, modelled, acted in amateur dramatics – not anyhow, but with real talent. Whether she made lanterns for illuminations, put on fancy dress or tied someone’s tie, the final effect was always highly artistic, graceful and charming. But nowhere did her talent shine so bright as in her flair for striking up an acquaintance with celebrities and being on intimate terms with them in no time at all. Someone only needed to make some sort of name for himself, however insignificant, or get himself talked about, than she would make sure she was introduced to him right away and she invited him home that very same day.

  Every time she made a new acquaintance was a red-letter day for her. She worshipped celebrities, revelled in them and dreamed of them every night. She craved them with a thirst nothing could assuage. Old ones departed the scene and were forgotten, new ones replaced them, but soon she grew used to these too, or was disappointed in them, and eagerly went in search of new and ever newer great men. And when she found them she continued the search. Why did she do this?

  At about half past four she would dine at home with her husband. His lack of affectation, common sense and good nature sent her into raptures of delight. She would constantly jump up from the table, impulsively fling her arms around his head and shower it with kisses.

  ‘You’re such an intelligent man, Dymov, with such high principles, but you have one very serious shortcoming. You’re not in the least bit interested in art. And you reject music and painting too.’

  ‘I don’t understand them,’ he would say meekly. ‘All my life I’ve been working in natural science and medicine and I’ve never had the time to take an interest in the arts.’

  ‘But that’s dreadful, Dymov!’

  ‘How so? Your friends know nothing of the natural sciences and medicine, but you don’t hold it against them, do you? Each to his own. I don’t understand landscape or opera, but I do think that if clever people devote their whole lives to them and other clever people pay vast amounts for them, then they must be important. If I don’t understand, it doesn’t follow that I reject them.’

  ‘Let me shake your honest hand!’

  After dinner Olga would visit friends, then go to the theatre or a concert and return after midnight. And so it went on day after day.

  On Wednesdays she was ‘at home’. At these soirées hostess and guests did not play cards or dance, but entertained themselves with all kinds of artistic activity. The actor recited, the opera singer sang, the artists did sketches in albums – of which Olga had countless numbers – the cellist played and the hostess herself sketched, modelled, sang and played accompaniments. In the gaps between the recitation, music and singing they talked and argued about literature, the theatre, painting. Ladies were not invited, since Olga considered all women – actresses and her dressmaker excepted – as vulgar and boring. Not one soirée passed without the hostess giving a start every time the doorbell rang. ‘It’s him!’ she would exclaim triumphantly – and by him she meant some newly invited celebrity. Dymov was never in the drawing-room and no one was even aware of his existence. But at precisely half past eleven the dining-room door would open and Dymov would appear.

  ‘Supper is served, gentlemen’, he would say, rubbing his hands together.

  Everyone would file into the dining-room and would invariably see the same display on the table: a plate of oysters, a joint of ham or veal, sardines, cheese, caviare, mushrooms, vodka and two carafes of wine.

  ‘My dear maître d’hôtel!’ Olga would say, throwing up her hands in rapture. ‘You’re so lovely! Just look at that face, gentlemen. Dymov! Turn your profile towards us. Just look, gentlemen – the face of a Bengal tiger, but the kindly, lovable expression of a deer. Oh, isn’t he sweet!’

  The guests would eat and as they looked at Dymov would think: ‘Actually, a really nice chap!’ But they soon forgot him and carried on talking about the theatre, music, painting.

  The young couple were happy and all went swimmingly. However, the third week of their married life was not altogether happy – the reverse, in fact. Dymov caught erysipelas at the hospital, spent six days in bed and had to have his splendid black hair shaved to the roots. Olga sat at his bedside and wept bitterly, but the moment he felt better she draped a white handkerchief over his cropped head and started painting him as a Bedouin. Both found this immense fun. And then, a couple of days after he had recovered and had returned to the hospital, disaster struck a
gain.

  ‘I’m not having the best of luck, Mother!’ he said one day over dinner. ‘I did four postmortems today and right at the start I cut two fingers. I only noticed it when I got home.’

  Olga was scared, but he smiled and said it was absolutely nothing and that he often cut his hands when doing autopsies.

  ‘I get carried away, Mother, and then I become careless.’

  Olga was worried that he might get blood poisoning and prayed every night, but all was well. Once again their quiet, happy life resumed its course without incident or alarm. The present was beautiful enough, but spring was coming to take its place, smiling from afar and bearing the promise of a thousand joys. There would be endless bliss! In April, May and June there would be the holiday cottage a long way from town, walks, sketching, fishing, nightingales and then, from July right up to autumn, a painting trip on the Volga in which Olga too would take part as an indispensable member of the société. She had already had two gingham travelling costumes made, purchased paints, brushes, canvases and a new palette for the trip. Ryabovsky called almost every day to see how she was getting on with her painting. When she showed him her work he would thrust his hands deep in his pockets, purse his lips, sniff loudly and say:

  ‘Well now… that cloud over there is all wrong. And that’s not evening light. The foreground is a bit chewed up… you know, something’s not right… And that cottage seems to have choked on something, it’s making a pitiful squeaking… And you should have used a darker shade for that corner. But on the whole quite a decent effort… well done!’

  And the more unintelligibly he spoke the easier it was for Olga to understand him.

  III

  On Whit Monday afternoon Dymov bought food and chocolates and went to visit his wife at the cottage. Since he hadn’t seen her for a fortnight he missed her terribly. When he was on the train and later, when he was looking for the cottage in a large wood, he felt hungry and exhausted the whole time and dreamed of a leisurely supper with his wife and then tumbling into bed. Just looking at the parcel, in which he had wrapped the caviare, cheese and white salmon, cheered him up.

  By the time he had sought out and recognized the cottage the sun was setting. An ancient housemaid told him that the mistress was out, but that no doubt she’d soon be back. The cottage, which was really hideous to look at, had low ceilings pasted all over with sheets of writing paper and its uneven floorboards were full of gaps. There were only three rooms. In one of them was a bed, in another chairs and windowsills piled high with canvases, paintbrushes and scraps of greasy paper, men’s overcoats and hats, whilst in the third Dymov found three men he had never set eyes on before. Two were dark and had small beards, while the third was fat and clean-shaven – an actor by all appearances. On the table a samovar was boiling away.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ asked the actor in a bass voice, giving Dymov a chilly look. ‘Looking for Olga Ivanovna? Wait here, she won’t be long.’

  Dymov sat down and waited. One of the dark men gave him a languid, sleepy look and poured himself some tea.

  ‘Perhaps you’d care for a glass?’ he asked.

  Dymov was both thirsty and hungry, but he refused the tea, as he did not want to spoil his appetite. Soon he heard footsteps and a familiar laugh. The door slammed open and into the room ran Olga, in a wide-brimmed hat, carrying a box in her hands, followed by the jovial, rosy-cheeked Ryabovsky with a large parasol and a folding-chair.

  ‘Dymov!’ cried Olga, flushing for joy. ‘Dymov!’ she repeated, laying her head and hands on his chest. ‘It’s you! What took you so long? What?’

  ‘When could I get away, Mother? I’m always so busy and when I am free the train times are no good.’

  ‘But I’m so glad to see you. I dreamt of you all night long and I was afraid you might be ill. Oh, if only you knew how sweet you are – and you’ve come at just the right time! You’ll be my salvation. Only you can save me! Tomorrow’, she continued, laughing and tying her husband’s tie, ‘there’s going to be an amazing wedding here. The young telegraph clerk at the railway station, Chikildeyev, is getting married. A handsome young man and quite intelligent. And, do you know, there’s something so powerful, so bear-like about his face… I could paint him as a young Viking. All of us holiday-makers here are taking an interest in him and we’ve given him our word that we’ll be at his wedding… He doesn’t have much money, he’s got no family, he’s shy and it would be shameful not to offer him moral support. Just picture it – the wedding ceremony will be after the church service and then everyone will leave for the bride’s house… You see, there’ll be the woods, birdsong, patches of sunlight on the grass, and all of us will look like variegated patches against a green background. Highly original, in French Expressionist style! But what am I going to wear in church, Dymov?’ she added with a distressed look. ‘I’ve nothing here – literally nothing! No dress, no flowers, no gloves… You must save me. The fact you’ve arrived means the fates themselves have ordered you to rescue me. Now, take the keys, dear, go home and fetch my pink dress from the wardrobe. You remember, it’s hanging in front. And you’ll find two cardboard boxes on the pantry floor, to the right. If you open the top one you’ll find lots and lots of tulle and some bits and pieces… and underneath them some flowers. You must take the flowers out carefully – try not to crush them, darling! I’ll choose the ones I need later. And buy me some gloves.’

  ‘All right’, Dymov said. ‘I’ll go tomorrow and send them.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ Olga said, looking at him in amazement. ‘Tomorrow you won’t have time – the first train leaves here at nine and the wedding’s at eleven! No, my darling, you must go today – today without fail! And if you can’t come yourself tomorrow, send the whole lot by special messenger. Hurry up, you must go now… the passenger train’s due any minute! Don’t miss it, darling!’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Oh, I really don’t like letting you go’, Olga said and tears came to her eyes. ‘And why was I silly enough to promise that telegraph clerk?’

  Dymov gulped his tea, grabbed a roll and went off to the station, gently smiling. The caviare, cheese and white salmon were eaten by the two dark men and the actor.

  IV

  On a tranquil moonlit night in July Olga was standing on the deck of a Volga steamboat, gazing now at the water, then at the beautiful banks. By her stood Ryabovsky: the black shadows on the water, he was telling her, were not shadows, but a fleeting vision. As one gazed at the magical water with its mysterious gleam, at the fathomless sky and those sad, brooding river banks that spoke of the vanity of our lives, of the existence of something loftier, of a world of everlasting bliss, one would be happy enough to swoon, to die, to become but a memory. The past was vulgar and drab, the future of no significance and that wonderful, unique night would soon come to an end and merge with eternity. Why live, then?

  And now, as Olga listened to Ryabovsky’s voice, now to the stillness of the night, she fancied she was immortal and could never die. The turquoise water which she had never seen before, the sky, the river banks, the black shadows and that unaccountable joy that filled her heart – all these things told her that she would become a great artist and that somewhere, far beyond the horizon, far beyond this moonlit night, in the boundlessness of space, success, fame, people’s adulation awaited her… When she gazed long and unblinking into the distance she imagined she was seeing crowds, lights, hearing the sound of solemn music, cries of delight, herself in a white dress, and flowers being strewn on her from every side. She thought too that by her side, leaning his elbows on the rail, stood a truly great man, a genius, one of God’s elect… All that he had created up to now was beautiful, new and unusual, but what he would create in time, when his rare talent grew to maturity, would be breathtaking, something incalculably sublime – all this was clear from his face, from the way he expressed himself and in his attitude to Nature. Of shadows, of evening tints and of moonlight he had his own very special way of t
alking, his own language, so that one could sense the irresistible fascination of his power over Nature. He was very handsome, unconventional and his life, so independent, so free, so remote from all that was mundane, resembled that of a bird.