glass. I was drunk both with the wine and with the presence of a woman. Do you remember the song? 'Eyes black as pitch, eyes full of passion, Eyes burning bright and beautiful, How I love you, How I fear you!'
I don't remember what happened next. Anyone who wants to know how love begins may read novels and long stories; I will put it shortly and in the words of the same silly song: 'It was an evil hour When first I met you.'
Everything went head over heels to the devil. I remember a fearful, frantic whirlwind which sent me flying round like a feather. It lasted a long while, and swept from the face of the earth my wife and my aunt herself and my strength. From the little station in the steppe it has flung me, as you see, into this dark street.
Now tell me what further evil can happen to me?
FROST
by Anton Chekhov
A 'POPULAR' fete with a philanthropic object had been arranged on the Feast of Epiphany in the provincial town of N----. They had selected a broad part of the river between the market and the bishop's palace, fenced it round with a rope, with fir-trees and with flags, and provided everything necessary for skating, sledging, and tobogganing. The festivity was organized on the grandest scale possible. The notices that were distributed were of huge size and promised a number of delights: skating, a military band, a lottery with no blank tickets, an electric sun, and so on. But the whole scheme almost came to nothing owing to the hard frost. From the eve of Epiphany there were twenty-eight degrees of frost with a strong wind; it was proposed to put off the fete, and this was not done only because the public, which for a long while had been looking forward to the fete impatiently, would not consent to any postponement.
'Only think, what do you expect in winter but a frost!' said the ladies persuading the governor, who tried to insist that the fete should be postponed. 'If anyone is cold he can go and warm himself.'
The trees, the horses, the men's beards were white with frost; it even seemed that the air itself crackled, as though unable to endure the cold; but in spite of that the frozen public were skating. Immediately after the blessing of the waters and precisely at one o'clock the military band began playing.
Between three and four o'clock in the afternoon, when the festivity was at its height, the select society of the place gathered together to warm themselves in the governor's pavilion, which had been put up on the river-bank. The old governor and his wife, the bishop, the president of the local court, the head master of the high school, and many others, were there. The ladies were sitting in armchairs, while the men crowded round the wide glass door, looking at the skating.
'Holy Saints!' said the bishop in surprise; 'what flourishes they execute with their legs! Upon my soul, many a singer couldn't do a twirl with his voice as those cut-throats do with their legs. Aie! he'll kill himself!'
'That's Smirnov. . . . That's Gruzdev . . .' said the head master, mentioning the names of the schoolboys who flew by the pavilion.
'Bah! he's all alive-oh!' laughed the governor. 'Look, gentlemen, our mayor is coming. . . . He is coming this way. . . . That's a nuisance, he will talk our heads off now.'
A little thin old man, wearing a big cap and a fur-lined coat hanging open, came from the opposite bank towards the pavilion, avoiding the skaters. This was the mayor of the town, a merchant, Eremeyev by name, a millionaire and an old inhabitant of N----. Flinging wide his arms and shrugging at the cold, he skipped along, knocking one golosh against the other, evidently in haste to get out of the wind. Half-way he suddenly bent down, stole up to some lady, and plucked at her sleeve from behind. When she looked round he skipped away, and probably delighted at having succeeded in frightening her, went off into a loud, aged laugh.
'Lively old fellow,' said the governor. 'It's a wonder he's not skating.'
As he got near the pavilion the mayor fell into a little tripping trot, waved his hands, and, taking a run, slid along the ice in his huge golosh boots up to the very door.
'Yegor Ivanitch, you ought to get yourself some skates!' the governor greeted him.
'That's just what I am thinking,' he answered in a squeaky, somewhat nasal tenor, taking off his cap. 'I wish you good health, your Excellency! Your Holiness! Long life to all the other gentlemen and ladies! Here's a frost! Yes, it is a frost, bother it! It's deadly!'
Winking with his red, frozen eyes, Yegor Ivanitch stamped on the floor with his golosh boots and swung his arms together like a frozen cabman.
'Such a damnable frost, worse than any dog!' he went on talking, smiling all over his face. 'It's a real affliction!'
'It's healthy,' said the governor; 'frost strengthens a man and makes him vigorous. . . .'
'Though it may be healthy, it would be better without it at all,' said the mayor, wiping his wedge-shaped beard with a red handkerchief. 'It would be a good riddance! To my thinking, your Excellency, the Lord sends it us as a punishment -- the frost, I mean. We sin in the summer and are punished in the winter. . . . Yes!'
Yegor Ivanitch looked round him quickly and flung up his hands.
'Why, where's the needful . . . to warm us up?' he asked, looking in alarm first at the governor and then at the bishop. 'Your Excellency! Your Holiness! I'll be bound, the ladies are frozen too! We must have something, this won't do!'
Everyone began gesticulating and declaring that they had not come to the skating to warm themselves, but the mayor, heeding no one, opened the door and beckoned to someone with his crooked finger. A workman and a fireman ran up to him.
'Here, run off to Savatin,' he muttered, 'and tell him to make haste and send here . . . what do you call it? . . . What's it to be? Tell him to send a dozen glasses . . . a dozen glasses of mulled wine, the very hottest, or punch, perhaps. . . .'
There was laughter in the pavilion.
'A nice thing to treat us to!'
'Never mind, we will drink it,' muttered the mayor; 'a dozen glasses, then . . . and some Benedictine, perhaps . . . and tell them to warm two bottles of red wine. . . . Oh, and what for the ladies? Well, you tell them to bring cakes, nuts . . . sweets of some sort, perhaps. . . . There, run along, look sharp!'
The mayor was silent for a minute and then began again abusing the frost, banging his arms across his chest and thumping with his golosh boots.
'No, Yegor Ivanitch,' said the governor persuasively, 'don't be unfair, the Russian frost has its charms. I was reading lately that many of the good qualities of the Russian people are due to the vast expanse of their land and to the climate, the cruel struggle for existence . . . that's perfectly true!'
'It may be true, your Excellency, but it would be better without it. The frost did drive out the French, of course, and one can freeze all sorts of dishes, and the children can go skating -- that's all true! For the man who is well fed and well clothed the frost is only a pleasure, but for the working man, the beggar, the pilgrim, the crazy wanderer, it's the greatest evil and misfortune. It's misery, your Holiness! In a frost like this poverty is twice as hard, and the thief is more cunning and evildoers more violent. There's no gainsaying it! I am turned seventy, I've a fur coat now, and at home I have a stove and rums and punches of all sorts. The frost means nothing to me now; I take no notice of it, I don't care to know of it, but how it used to be in old days, Holy Mother! It's dreadful to recall it! My memory is failing me with years and I have forgotten everything; my enemies, and my sins and troubles of all sorts -- I forget them all, but the frost -- ough! How I remember it! When my mother died I was left a little devil -- this high -- a homeless orphan . . . no kith nor kin, wretched, ragged, little clothes, hungry, nowhere to sleep -- in fact, 'we have here no abiding city, but seek the one to come.' In those days I used to lead an old blind woman about the town for five kopecks a day . . . the frosts were cruel, wicked. One would go out with the old woman and begin suffering torments. My Creator! First of all you would be shivering as in a fever, shrugging and dancing about. Then your ears, your fingers, your feet, would begin aching. They would ache as though someone were squeezing them with pincers. But all that would have been nothing, a trivial matter, of no great consequence. The trouble was when your whole body was chilled. One would walk for three blessed hours in the frost, your Holiness, and lose all human semblance. Your legs are drawn up, there is a weight on your chest, your stomach is pinched; above all,
