Tales of Chekhov 04-The Party and other stories

narrow, false, heartless; they all said what they did not think, and did what they did not want to. Dreariness and despair were stifling her; she longed to leave off smiling, to leap up and cry out, 'I am sick of you,' and then jump out and swim to the bank.

'I say, let's take Pyotr Dmitritch in tow!' some one shouted.

'In tow, in tow!' the others chimed in. 'Olga Mihalovna, take your husband in tow.'

To take him in tow, Olga Mihalovna, who was steering, had to seize the right moment and to catch bold of his boat by the chain at the beak. When she bent over to the chain Pyotr Dmitritch frowned and looked at her in alarm.

'I hope you won't catch cold,' he said.

'If you are uneasy about me and the child, why do you torment me?' thought Olga Mihalovna.

Pyotr Dmitritch acknowledged himself vanquished, and, not caring to be towed, jumped from the Penderaklia into the boat which was overful already, and jumped so carelessly that the boat lurched violently, and every one cried out in terror.

'He did that to please the ladies,' thought Olga Mihalovna; 'he knows it's charming.' Her hands and feet began trembling, as she supposed, from boredom, vexation from the strain of smiling and the discomfort she felt all over her body. And to conceal this trembling from her guests, she tried to talk more loudly, to laugh, to move.

'If I suddenly begin to cry,' she thought, 'I shall say I have toothache. . . .'

But at last the boats reached the 'Island of Good Hope,' as they called the peninsula formed by a bend in the river at an acute angle, covered with a copse of old birch-trees, oaks, willows, and poplars. The tables were already laid under the trees; the samovars were smoking, and Vassily and Grigory, in their swallow-tails and white knitted gloves, were already busy with the tea-things. On the other bank, opposite the 'Island of Good Hope,' there stood the carriages which had come with the provisions. The baskets and parcels of provisions were carried across to the island in a little boat like the Penderaklia. The footmen, the coachmen, and even the peasant who was sitting in the boat, had the solemn expression befitting a name-day such as one only sees in children and servants.

While Olga Mihalovna was making the tea and pouring out the first glasses, the visitors were busy with the liqueurs and sweet things. Then there was the general commotion usual at picnics over drinking tea, very wearisome and exhausting for the hostess. Grigory and Vassily had hardly had time to take the glasses round before hands were being stretched out to Olga Mihalovna with empty glasses. One asked for no sugar, another wanted it stronger, another weak, a fourth declined another glass. And all this Olga Mihalovna had to remember, and then to call, 'Ivan Petrovitch, is it without sugar for you?' or, 'Gentlemen, which of you wanted it weak?' But the guest who had asked for weak tea, or no sugar, had by now forgotten it, and, absorbed in agreeable conversation, took the first glass that came. Depressed-looking figures wandered like shadows at a little distance from the table, pretending to look for mushrooms in the grass, or reading the labels on the boxes—these were those for whom there were not glasses enough. 'Have you had tea?' Olga Mihalovna kept asking, and the guest so addressed begged her not to trouble, and said, 'I will wait,' though it would have suited her better for the visitors not to wait but to make haste.

Some, absorbed in conversation, drank their tea slowly, keeping their glasses for half an hour; others, especially some who had drunk a good deal at dinner, would not leave the table, and kept on drinking glass after glass, so that Olga Mihalovna scarcely had time to fill them. One jocular young man sipped his tea through a lump of sugar, and kept saying, 'Sinful man that I am, I love to indulge myself with the Chinese herb.' He kept asking with a heavy sigh: 'Another tiny dish of tea more, if you please.' He drank a great deal, nibbled his sugar, and thought it all very amusing and original, and imagined that he was doing a clever imitation of a Russian merchant. None of them understood that these trifles were agonizing to their hostess, and, indeed, it was hard to understand it, as Olga Mihalovna went on all the time smiling affably and talking nonsense.

But she felt ill. . . . She was irritated by the crowd of people, the laughter, the questions, the jocular young man, the footmen harassed and run off their legs, the children who hung round the table; she was irritated at Vata's being like Nata, at Kolya's being like Mitya, so that one could not tell which of them had had tea and which of them had not. She felt that her smile of forced affability was passing into an expression of anger, and she felt every minute as though she would burst into tears.

'Rain, my friends,' cried some one.

Every one looked at the sky.

'Yes, it really is rain . . .' Pyotr Dmitritch assented, and wiped his cheek.

Only a few drops were falling from the sky—the real rain had not begun yet; but the company abandoned their tea and made haste to get off. At first they all wanted to drive home in the carriages, but changed their minds and made for the boats. On the pretext that she had to hasten home to give directions about the supper, Olga Mihalovna asked to be excused for leaving the others, and went home in the carriage.

When she got into the carriage, she first of all let her face rest from smiling. With an angry face she drove through the village, and with an angry face acknowledged the bows of the peasants she met. When she got home, she went to the bedroom by the back way and lay down on her husband's bed.

'Merciful God!' she whispered. 'What is all this hard labour for? Why do all these people hustle each other here and pretend that they are enjoying themselves? Why do I smile and lie? I don't understand it.'

She heard steps and voices. The visitors had come back.

'Let them come,' thought Olga Mihalovna; 'I shall lie a little longer.'

But a maid-servant came and said:

'Marya Grigoryevna is going, madam.'

Olga Mihalovna jumped up, tidied her hair and hurried out of the room.

'Marya Grigoryevna, what is the meaning of this?' she began in an injured voice, going to meet Marya Grigoryevna. 'Why are you in such a hurry?'

'I can't help it, darling! I've stayed too long as it is; my children are expecting me home.'

'It's too bad of you! Why didn't you bring your children with you?'

'If you will let me, dear, I will bring them on some ordinary day, but to-day . . .'

'Oh, please do,' Olga Mihalovna interrupted; 'I shall be delighted!

Your children are so sweet! Kiss them all for me. . . . But, really,

I am offended with you! I don't understand why you are in such a

hurry!'

'I really must, I really must. . . . Good-bye, dear. Take care of yourself. In your condition, you know . . .'

And the ladies kissed each other. After seeing the departing guest to her carriage, Olga Mihalovna went in to the ladies in the drawing-room. There the lamps were already lighted and the gentlemen were sitting down to cards.

IV

The party broke up after supper about a quarter past twelve. Seeing her visitors off, Olga Mihalovna stood at the door and said:

'You really ought to take a shawl! It's turning a little chilly.

Please God, you don't catch cold!'

'Don't trouble, Olga Mihalovna,' the ladies answered as they got into the carriage. 'Well, good-bye. Mind now, we are expecting you; don't play us false!'

'Wo-o-o!' the coachman checked the horses.

'Ready, Denis! Good-bye, Olga Mihalovna!'

'Kiss the children for me!'

The carriage started and immediately disappeared into the darkness. In the red circle of light cast by the lamp in the road, a fresh pair or trio of impatient horses, and the silhouette of a coachman with his hands held out