Tales of Chekhov 08-The Chorus Girl and Other Stories

'You understand, moonlight, her pale face, breathless with passion, the stillness . . . little pig as I was I actually enjoyed it. I listened to her, looked at her eyes. . . . At first I liked it, and enjoyed the novelty. Then I was suddenly seized with terror, I gave a scream, and ran into the house at breakneck speed.

'I made up my mind that the best thing to do was to complain to maman. And I did complain, mentioning incidentally how Sasha had kissed Zinotchka. I was stupid, and did not know what would follow, or I should have kept the secret to myself. . . . After hearing my story maman flushed with indignation and said:

''It is not your business to speak about that, you are still very young. . . . But, what an example for children.'

'My maman was not only virtuous but diplomatic. To avoid a scandal she did not get rid of Zinotchka at once, but set to work gradually, systematically, to pave the way for her departure, as one does with well-bred but intolerable people. I remember that when Zinotchka did leave us the last glance she cast at the house was directed at the window at which I was sitting, and I assure you, I remember that glance to this day.

'Zinotchka soon afterwards became my brother's wife. She is the Zinaida Nikolaevna whom you know. The next time I met her I was already an ensign. In spite of all her efforts she could not recognize the hated Petya in the ensign with his moustache, but still she did not treat me quite like a relation. . . . And even now, in spite of my good-humoured baldness, meek corpulence, and unassuming air, she still looks askance at me, and feels put out when I go to see my brother. Hatred it seems can no more be forgotten than love. . . .

'Tchoo! I hear the cock crowing! Good-night. Milord! Lie down!'

BAD WEATHER

BIG raindrops were pattering on the dark windows. It was one of those disgusting summer holiday rains which, when they have begun, last a long time—for weeks, till the frozen holiday maker grows used to it, and sinks into complete apathy. It was cold; there was a feeling of raw, unpleasant dampness. The mother-in-law of a lawyer, called Kvashin, and his wife, Nadyezhda Filippovna, dressed in waterproofs and shawls, were sitting over the dinner table in the dining-room. It was written on the countenance of the elder lady that she was, thank God, well-fed, well-clothed and in good health, that she had married her only daughter to a good man, and now could play her game of patience with an easy conscience; her daughter, a rather short, plump, fair young woman of twenty, with a gentle an?mic face, was reading a book with her elbows on the table; judging from her eyes she was not so much reading as thinking her own thoughts, which were not in the book. Neither of them spoke. There was the sound of the pattering rain, and from the kitchen they could hear the prolonged yawns of the cook.

Kvashin himself was not at home. On rainy days he did not come to the summer villa, but stayed in town; damp, rainy weather affected his bronchitis and prevented him from working. He was of the opinion that the sight of the grey sky and the tears of rain on the windows deprived one of energy and induced the spleen. In the town, where there was greater comfort, bad weather was scarcely noticed.

After two games of patience, the old lady shuffled the cards and took a glance at her daughter.

'I have been trying with the cards whether it will be fine to-morrow, and whether our Alexey Stepanovitch will come,' she said. 'It is five days since he was here. . . . The weather is a chastisement from God.'

Nadyezhda Filippovna looked indifferently at her mother, got up, and began walking up and down the room.

'The barometer was rising yesterday,' she said doubtfully, 'but they say it is falling again to-day.'

The old lady laid out the cards in three long rows and shook her head.

'Do you miss him?' she asked, glancing at her daughter.

'Of course.'

'I see you do. I should think so. He hasn't been here for five days. In May the utmost was two, or at most three days, and now it is serious, five days! I am not his wife, and yet I miss him. And yesterday, when I heard the barometer was rising, I ordered them to kill a chicken and prepare a carp for Alexey Stepanovitch. He likes them. Your poor father couldn't bear fish, but he likes it. He always eats it with relish.'

'My heart aches for him,' said the daughter. 'We are dull, but it is duller still for him, you know, mamma.'

'I should think so! In the law-courts day in and day out, and in the empty flat at night alone like an owl.'

'And what is so awful, mamma, he is alone there without servants; there is no one to set the samovar or bring him water. Why didn't he engage a valet for the summer months? And what use is the summer villa at all if he does not care for it? I told him there was no need to have it, but no, 'It is for the sake of your health,' he said, and what is wrong with my health? It makes me ill that he should have to put up with so much on my account.'

Looking over her mother's shoulder, the daughter noticed a mistake in the patience, bent down to the table and began correcting it. A silence followed. Both looked at the cards and imagined how their Alexey Stepanovitch, utterly forlorn, was sitting now in the town in his gloomy, empty study and working, hungry, exhausted, yearning for his family. . . .

'Do you know what, mamma?' said Nadyezhda Filippovna suddenly, and her eyes began to shine. 'If the weather is the same to-morrow I'll go by the first train and see him in town! Anyway, I shall find out how he is, have a look at him, and pour out his tea.'

And both of them began to wonder how it was that this idea, so simple and easy to carry out, had not occurred to them before. It was only half an hour in the train to the town, and then twenty minutes in a cab. They said a little more, and went off to bed in the same room, feeling more contented.

'Oho-ho-ho. . . . Lord, forgive us sinners!' sighed the old lady when the clock in the hall struck two. 'There is no sleeping.'

'You are not asleep, mamma?' the daughter asked in a whisper. 'I keep thinking of Alyosha. I only hope he won't ruin his health in town. Goodness knows where he dines and lunches. In restaurants and taverns.'

'I have thought of that myself,' sighed the old lady. 'The Heavenly

Mother save and preserve him. But the rain, the rain!'

In the morning the rain was not pattering on the panes, but the sky was still grey. The trees stood looking mournful, and at every gust of wind they scattered drops. The footprints on the muddy path, the ditches and the ruts were full of water. Nadyezhda Filippovna made up her mind to go.

'Give him my love,' said the old lady, wrapping her daughter up. 'Tell him not to think too much about his cases. . . . And he must rest. Let him wrap his throat up when he goes out: the weather— God help us! And take him the chicken; food from home, even if cold, is better than at a restaurant.'

The daughter went away, saying that she would come back by an evening train or else next morning.

But she came back long before dinner-time, when the old lady was sitting on her trunk in her bedroom and drowsily thinking what to cook for her son-in-law's supper.

Going into the room her daughter, pale and agitated, sank on the bed without uttering a word or taking off her hat, and pressed her head into the pillow.

'But what is the matter,' said the old lady in surprise, 'why back so soon? Where is Alexey Stepanovitch?'

Nadyezhda Filippovna raised her head and gazed at her mother with dry, imploring eyes.

'He is deceiving us, mamma,' she said.

'What are you saying? Christ be with you!' cried the old lady in alarm, and her cap slipped off her head. 'Who is going to deceive us? Lord, have mercy on us!'

'He is deceiving us, mamma!' repeated her daughter, and her chin began to quiver.

'How do you know?' cried the old lady, turning pale.

'Our flat is locked up. The porter tells me that Alyosha has not been home once for these five days. He is not living at home! He is not at home, not at home!'

She waved her hands and burst into loud weeping, uttering nothing but: 'Not at home! Not at home!'

She began to be hysterical.

'What's the meaning of it?' muttered the old woman in horror. 'Why, he wrote the day before yesterday that he never leaves the flat! Where is he sleeping? Holy Saints!'