Selected early short stories 1886

'Not Varvara Nikolayevna?' asked Klimov, and he beamed with satisfaction. 'She really is a beauty . . . the most beautiful girl in the town.'

'The most beautiful girl in the town! A classic profile, great black eyes . . . . and hair to her waist! She saw me in 'Hamlet,' she wrote me a letter a la Pushkin's 'Tatyana.' . . . I answered, as you may guess. . . .'

Podzharov looked round, and having satisfied himself that there were no ladies in the room, rolled his eyes, smiled mournfully, and heaved a sigh.

'I came home one evening after a performance,' he whispered, 'and there she was, sitting on my sofa. There followed tears, protestations of love, kisses. . . . Oh, that was a marvellous, that was a divine night! Our romance lasted two months, but that night was never repeated. It was a night, parole d'honneur! E'

'Excuse me, what's that?' muttered Klimov, turning crimson and gazing open-eyed at the actor. 'I know Varvara Nikolayevna well: she's my niece.'

Podzharov was embarrassed, and he, too, opened his eyes wide.

'How's this?' Klimov went on, throwing up his hands. 'I know the girl, and . . . and . . . I am surprised. . . .'

'I am very sorry this has come up,' muttered the actor, getting up and rubbing something out of his left eye with his little finger. 'Though, of course . . . of course, you as her uncle . . .'

The other guests, who had hitherto been listening to the actor with pleasure and rewarding him with smiles, were embarrassed and dropped their eyes.

'Please, do be so good . . . take your words back . . .' said Klimov in extreme embarrassment. 'I beg you to do so!'

'If . . . er-er-er . . . it offends you, certainly,' answered the actor, with an movement of his hand.

'And confess you have told a falsehood.'

'I, no . . . er-er-er. . . . It was not a lie, but I greatly regret having spoken too freely. . . . And, in fact . . . I don't understand your tone!'

Klimov walked up and down the room in silence, as though in uncertainty and hesitation. His fleshy face grew more and more crimson, and the veins in his neck swelled up. After walking up and down for about two minutes he went up to the actor and said in a tearful voice:

'No, do be so good as to confess that you told a lie about Varenka! Have the goodness to do so!'

'It's queer,' said the actor, with a strained smile, shrugging his shoulders and swinging his leg. 'This is positively insulting!'

'So you will not confess it?'

'I do-on't understand!'

'You will not? In that case, excuse me . . . I shall have to resort to unpleasant measures. Either, sir, I shall insult you at once on the spot, or . . . if you are an honourable man, you will kindly accept my challenge to a duel. . . . We will fight!'

'Certainly!' rapped out the jeune premier, with a contemptuous gesture. 'Certainly.'

Extremely perturbed, the guests and the host, not knowing what to do, drew Klimov aside and began begging him not to get up a scandal. Astonished feminine countenances appeared in the doorway. . . . The jeune premier turned round, said a few words, and with an air of being unable to remain in a house where he was insulted, took his cap and made off without saying good-bye.

On his way home the jeune premier smiled contemptuously and shrugged his shoulders, but when he reached his hotel room and stretched himself on his sofa he felt exceedingly uneasy.

'The devil take him!' he thought. 'A duel does not matter, he won't kill me, but the trouble is the other fellows will hear of it, and they know perfectly well it was a yarn. It's abominable! I shall be disgraced all over Russia. . . .'

Podzharov thought a little, smoked, and to calm himself went out into the street.

'I ought to talk to this bully, ram into his stupid noddle that he is a blockhead and a fool, and that I am not in the least afraid of him. . . .'

The jeune premier stopped before Zybaev's house and looked at the windows. Lights were still burning behind the muslin curtains and figures were moving about.

'I'll wait for him!' the actor decided.

It was dark and cold. A hateful autumn rain was drizzling as though through a sieve. Podzharov leaned his elbow on a lamp-post and abandoned himself to a feeling of uneasiness.

He was wet through and exhausted.

At two o'clock in the night the guests began coming out of Zybaev's house. The landowner from Tula was the last to make his appearance. He heaved a sigh that could be heard by the whole street and scraped the pavement with his heavy overboots.

'Excuse me!' said the jeune premier, overtaking him. 'One minute.'

Klimov stopped. The actor gave a smile, hesitated, and began, stammering: 'I . . . I confess . . . I told a lie.'

'No, sir, you will please confess that publicly,' said Klimov, and he turned crimson again. 'I can't leave it like that. . . .'

'But you see I am apologizing! I beg you . . . don't you understand? I beg you because you will admit a duel will make talk, and I am in a position. . . . My fellow-actors . . . goodness knows what they may think. . . .'

The jeune premier tried to appear unconcerned, to smile, to stand erect, but his body would not obey him, his voice trembled, his eyes blinked guiltily, and his head drooped. For a good while he went on muttering something. Klimov listened to him, thought a little, and heaved a sigh.

'Well, so be it,' he said. 'May God forgive you. Only don't lie in future, young man. Nothing degrades a man like lying . . . yes, indeed! You are a young man, you have had a good education. . . .'

The landowner from Tula, in a benignant, fatherly way, gave him a lecture, while the jeune premier listened and smiled meekly. . . . When it was over he smirked, bowed, and with a guilty step and a crestfallen air set off for his hotel.

As he went to bed half an hour later he felt that he was out of danger and was already in excellent spirits. Serene and satisfied that the misunderstanding had ended so satisfactorily, he wrapped himself in the bedclothes, soon fell asleep, and slept soundly till ten o'clock next morning.

NOTES

jeune premier: young lead actor

parole d'honneur: word of honor

soirees fixes: set social gatherings

Mon Dieu: my God

IN THE DARK

by Anton Chekhov

A FLY of medium size made its way into the nose of the assistant procurator, Gagin. It may have been impelled by curiosity, or have got there through frivolity or accident in the dark; anyway, the nose resented the presence of a foreign body and gave the signal for a sneeze. Gagin sneezed, sneezed impressively and so shrilly and loudly that the bed shook and the springs creaked. Gagin's wife, Marya Mihalovna, a full, plump, fair woman, started, too, and woke up. She gazed into the darkness, sighed, and turned over on the other side. Five minutes afterwards she turned over again and shut her eyes more firmly but she could not get to sleep again. After sighing and tossing from side to side for a time, she got up, crept over her husband, and putting on her slippers, went to the window.