Short stories 3

1135 Pages·02.302 MB·English

by  Chekhov, Anton

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Short Stories - Volume III
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Anton Chekhov
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Anton Chekhov (1860-1904)

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Etext Conversion By
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Nalanda Digital Library
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Regional Engineering College,Calicut,India
Anton Chekov’s Short Stories - Volume III
Contents (cid:14)
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THE BEAUTIES 4
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POLINKA 22
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DRUNK 34
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AN INADVERTENCE 47
VEROTCHKA (cid:8) 57
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SHROVE TUESDAY 87
A DEFENCELESS CREATURE (cid:6) 99
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A BAD BUSINESS 111
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HOME 124
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THE LOTTERY TICKET 145
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TOO EARLY! 156
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TYPHUS 168
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IN PASSION WEEK 184
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A MYSTERY 195
THE COSSACK 206
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THE LETTER 218
AN ADVENTURE 244
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(A Driver’s Story) 244
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THE EXAMINING MAGISTRATE 258
ABORIGINES 269
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VOLODYA 284
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HAPPINESS 315
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BAD WEATHER 337
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A PLAY 349
A TRANSGRESSION 361
FROM THE DIARY OF A VIOLENT-TEMPERED MAN 372
UPROOTED 396
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An Incident of My Travels 396
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A FATHER 431
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A HAPPY ENDING 448
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IN THE COACH-HOUSE 459
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ZINOTCHKA 473
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THE DOCTOR 487
THE PIPE 499
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AN AVENGER (cid:11) 518
THE POST 530
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THE RUNAWAY (cid:3) 544
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A PROBLEM 562
THE OLD HOUSE (cid:10) 578
(A Story told by a Houseowner) (cid:8) 578
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THE CATTLE-DEALERS 591
EXPENSIVE LESSONS (cid:8) 632
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THE LION AND THE SUN 646
IN TROUBLE 656
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THE KISS 671
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BOYS 714
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KASHTANKA 730
(A Story) (cid:4) 730
A LADY’S STORY 776
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A STORY WITHOUT A TITLE 786
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SLEEPY 795
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THE STEPPE 809
T(cid:1)he Story of a Journey 809
LIGHTS 1038
DARKNESS 1125
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THE BEAUTIES
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I
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I REMEMBER, when I was a high school boy in
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the fifth or sixth class, I was driv(cid:12)ing with my
grandfather from the village of Bols(cid:8)hoe Kryepkoe in
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the Don region to Rostov-on-the-Don. It was a
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sultry, languidly dreary day of August. Our eyes
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were glued together, and our mouths were parched
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from the heat and the dry burning wind which drove
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clouds of dust to meet us; one did not want to look
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or speak or think, and when our drowsy driver, a
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Little Russian called Karpo, swung his whip at the
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horses and lashed me on my cap, I did not protest
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or utter a sound, but only, rousing myself from half-
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slumber, gazed mildly and dejectedly into the
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distance to see whether there was a village visible
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through the dust. We stopped to feed the horses in
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a b(cid:2)ig Armenian village at a rich Armenian’s whom
m(cid:1)y grandfather knew. Never in my life have I seen a
greater caricature than that Armenian. Imagine a
little shaven head with thick overhanging eyebrows,
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a beak of a nose, long gray mustaches, and a(cid:14) wide
mouth with a long cherry-wood chibouk stic(cid:13)king out
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of it. This little head was clumsily attached to a lean
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hunch-back carcass attired in a fantastic garb, a
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short red jacket, and full bright blue trousers. This
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figure walked straddling its legs and shuffling with
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its slippers, spoke without taking the chibouk out of
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its mouth, and behaved with truly Armenian dignity,
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not smiling, but staring with wide-open eyes and
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trying to take as little notice as possible of its
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guests.
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There was neither wind nor dust in the
Armenian’s room(cid:6)s, but it was just as unpleasant,
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stifling, and dreary as in the steppe and on the road.
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I remember, dusty and exhausted by the heat, I sat
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in the corner on a green box. The unpainted wooden
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walls, the furniture, and the floors colored with
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yellow ocher smelt of dry wood baked by the sun.
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Wherever I looked there were flies and flies and
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flies. . . . Grandfather and the Armenian were
talking about grazing, about manure, and about
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oats. . . . I knew that they would be a good(cid:14) hour
getting the samovar; that grandfather would(cid:13) be not
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less than an hour drinking his tea, and then would
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lie down to sleep for two or three hours; that I
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should waste a quarter of the day waiting, after
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which there would be again the heat, the dust, the
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jolting cart. I heard the muttering of the two voices,
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and it began to seem to me that I had been seeing
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the Armenian, the cupboard with the crockery, the
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flies, the windows with the burning sun beating on
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them, for ages and ages, and should only cease to
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see them in the far-(cid:7)off future, and I was seized with
hatred for the steppe, the sun, the flies.. . .
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A Little Russian peasant woman in a kerchief
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brought in a tray of tea-things, then the samovar.
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The Armenian went slowly out into the passage and
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shouted: "Mashya, come and pour out tea! Where
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are you, Mashya?"
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(cid:1)Hurried footsteps were heard, and there came
into the room a girl of sixteen in a simple cotton
dress and a white kerchief. As she washed the
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crockery and poured out the tea, she was sta(cid:14)nding
with her back to me, and all I could see was (cid:13)that she
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was of a slender figure, barefooted, and that her
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little bare heels were covered by long trousers.
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The Armenian invited me to have tea. Sitting
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down to the table, I glanced at the girl, who was
handing me a glass of tea, an(cid:6)d felt all at once as
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though a wind were blowin(cid:2)g over my soul and
blowing away all the imp(cid:10)ressions of the day with
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their dust and drearin(cid:9)ess. I saw the bewitching
features of the most beautiful face I have ever met
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in real life or in my dreams. Before me stood a
beauty, and I re(cid:6)cognized that at the first glance as I
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should have recognized lightning.
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I am ready to swear that Masha -- or, as her
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father called her, Mashya -- was a real beauty, but I
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don’t know how to prove it. It sometimes happens
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tha(cid:2)t clouds are huddled together in disorder on the
h(cid:1)orizon, and the sun hiding behind them colors them
and the sky with tints of every possible shade--
crimson, orange, gold, lilac, muddy pink; one cloud
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is like a monk, another like a fish, a third like a(cid:14) Turk
in a turban. The glow of sunset enveloping a(cid:13) third of
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the sky gleams on the cross on the church, flashes
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on the windows of the manor house, is reflected in
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the river and the puddles, quivers on the trees; far,
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far away against the background of the sunset, a
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flock of wild ducks is flying homewards. . . . And the
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boy herding the cows, and the surveyor driving in
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his chaise over the dam, and the gentleman out for
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a walk, all gaze at the sunset, and every one of
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them thinks it terribly beautiful, but no one knows or
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can say in what its b(cid:7)eauty lies.
I was not the(cid:6) only one to think the Armenian girl
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beautiful. My grandfather, an old man of seventy,
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gruff and indifferent to women and the beauties of
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nature, looked caressingly at Masha for a full
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minute, and asked:
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(cid:2)"Is that your daughter, Avert Nazaritch?"
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"Yes, she is my daughter," answered the
Armenian.
"A fine young lady," said my grandfather
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approvingly. (cid:14)
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An artist would have called the Armenian girl’s
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beauty classical and severe, it was just that beauty,
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the contemplation of which -- God knows why!--
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inspires in one the conviction that one is seeing
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correct features; that hair, eyes, nose, mouth, neck,
bosom, and every movement o(cid:6)f the young body all
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go together in one complete(cid:2) harmonious accord in
which nature has not blu(cid:10)ndered over the smallest
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line. You fancy for so(cid:9)me reason that the ideally
beautiful woman must have such a nose as Masha’s,
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straight and slightly aquiline, just such great dark
eyes, such long (cid:6)lashes, such a languid glance; you
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fancy that her black curly hair and eyebrows go with
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the soft white tint of her brow and cheeks as the
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green reeds go with the quiet stream. Masha’s white
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neck and her youthful bosom were not fully
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developed, but you fancy the sculptor would need a
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great creative genius to mold them. You gaze, and
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little by little the desire comes over you to say to
Masha something extraordinarily pleasant, sincere,
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beautiful, as beautiful as she herself was. (cid:14)
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At first I felt hurt and abashed that Masha took
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no notice of me, but was all the time looking down;
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it seemed to me as though a peculiar atmosphere,
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proud and happy, separated her from me and
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jealously screened her from my eyes.
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"That’s because I am covered with dust," I
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thought, "am sunburnt, and am still a boy."
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But little by little I(cid:8) forgot myself, and gave
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myself up entirely to the consciousness of beauty. I
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thought no more n(cid:7)ow of the dreary steppe, of the
dust, no longer heard the buzzing of the flies, no
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longer tasted the tea, and felt nothing except that a
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beautiful girl was standing only the other side of the
table. (cid:4)
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I felt this beauty rather strangely. It was not
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desire, nor ecstacy, nor enjoyment that Masha
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excited in me, but a painful though pleasant
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sadness. It was a sadness vague and undefined as a
dream. For some reason I felt sorry for myself, for
my grandfather and for the Armenian, even for the
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