|
|
|
Anton Chekhov - Ionitch
I II
III VI
V
IV Four years had passed. Startsev already had a large practice in
the town. Every morning he hurriedly saw his patients at Dyalizh,
then he drove in to see his town patients. By now he drove, not
with a pair, but with a team of three with bells on them, and he
returned home late at night. He had grown broader and stouter,
and was not very fond of walking, as he was somewhat asthmatic.
And Panteleimon had grown stout, too, and the broader he grew,
the more mournfully he sighed and complained of his hard luck:
he was sick of driving! Startsev used to visit various
households and met many people, but did not become intimate with
any one. The inhabitants irritated him by their conversation,
their views of life, and even their appearance. Experience
taught him by degrees that while he played cards or lunched with
one of these people, the man was a peaceable, friendly, and even
intelligent human being; that as soon as one talked of anything
not eatable, for instance, of politics or science, he would be
completely at a loss, or would expound a philosophy so stupid
and ill-natured that there was nothing else to do but wave one's
hand in despair and go away. Even when Startsev tried to talk to
liberal citizens, saying, for instance, that humanity, thank
God, was progressing, and that one day it would be possible to
dispense with passports and capital punishment, the liberal
citizen would look at him askance and ask him mistrustfully:
"Then any one could murder any one he chose in the open street?"
And when, at tea or supper, Startsev observed in company that
one should work, and that one ought not to live without working,
every one took this as a reproach, and began to get angry and
argue aggressively. With all that, the inhabitants did nothing,
absolutely nothing, and took no interest in anything, and it was
quite impossible to think of anything to say. And Startsev
avoided conversation, and confined himself to eating and playing
vint; and when there was a family festivity in some household
and he was invited to a meal, then he sat and ate in silence,
looking at his plate.
And everything that was said at the time was uninteresting,
unjust, and stupid; he felt irritated and disturbed, but held
his tongue, and, because he sat glumly silent and looked at his
plate, he was nicknamed in the town "the haughty Pole," though
he never had been a Pole.
All such entertainments as theatres and concerts he declined,
but he played vint every evening for three hours with enjoyment.
He had another diversion to which he took imperceptibly, little
by little: in the evening he would take out of his pockets the
notes he had gained by his practice, and sometimes there were
stuffed in his pockets notes -- yellow and green, and smelling
of scent and vinegar and incense and fish oil -- up to the value
of seventy roubles; and when they amounted to some hundreds he
took them to the Mutual Credit Bank and deposited the money
there to his account.
He was only twice at the Turkins' in the course of the four
years after Ekaterina Ivanovna had gone away, on each occasion
at the invitation of Vera Iosifovna, who was still undergoing
treatment for migraine. Every summer Ekaterina Ivanovna came to
stay with her parents, but he did not once see her; it somehow
never happened.
But now four years had passed. One still, warm morning a letter
was brought to the hospital. Vera Iosifovna wrote to Dmitri
Ionitch that she was missing him very much, and begged him to
come and see them, and to relieve her sufferings; and, by the
way, it was her birthday. Below was a postscript: "I join in
mother's request.-- K."
Startsev considered, and in the evening he went to the Turkins'.
"How do you do, if you please?" Ivan Petrovitch met him, smiling
with his eyes only. "Bongjour."
Vera Iosifovna, white-haired and looking much older, shook
Startsev's hand, sighed affectedly, and said:
"You don't care to pay attentions to me, doctor. You never come
and see us; I am too old for you. But now some one young has
come; perhaps she will be more fortunate."
And Kitten? She had grown thinner, paler, had grown handsomer
and more graceful; but now she was Ekaterina Ivanovna, not
Kitten; she had lost the freshness and look of childish navet.
And in her expression and manners there was something new --
guilty and diffident, as though she did not feel herself at home
here in the Turkins' house.
"How many summers, how many winters!" she said, giving Startsev
her hand, and he could see that her heart was beating with
excitement; and looking at him intently and curiously, she went
on: "How much stouter you are! You look sunburnt and more manly,
but on the whole you have changed very little."
Now, too, he thought her attractive, very attractive, but there
was something lacking in her, or else something superfluous --
he could not himself have said exactly what it was, but
something prevented him from feeling as before. He did not like
her pallor, her new expression, her faint smile, her voice, and
soon afterwards he disliked her clothes, too, the low chair in
which she was sitting; he disliked something in the past when he
had almost married her. He thought of his love, of the dreams
and the hopes which had troubled him four years before -- and he
felt awkward.
They had tea with cakes. Then Vera Iosifovna read aloud a novel;
she read of things that never happen in real life, and Startsev
listened, looked at her handsome grey head, and waited for her
to finish.
"People are not stupid because they can't write novels, but
because they can't conceal it when they do," he thought.
"Not badsome," said Ivan Petrovitch.
Then Ekaterina Ivanovna played long and noisily on the piano,
and when she finished she was profusely thanked and warmly
praised.
"It's a good thing I did not marry her," thought Startsev.
She looked at him, and evidently expected him to ask her to go
into the garden, but he remained silent.
"Let us have a talk," she said, going up to him. "How are you
getting on? What are you doing? How are things? I have been
thinking about you all these days," she went on nervously. "I
wanted to write to you, wanted to come myself to see you at
Dyalizh. I quite made up my mind to go, but afterwards I thought
better of it. God knows what your attitude is towards me now; I
have been looking forward to seeing you to-day with such
emotion. For goodness' sake let us go into the garden."
They went into the garden and sat down on the seat under the old
maple, just as they had done four years before. It was dark.
"How are you getting on?" asked Ekaterina Ivanovna.
"Oh, all right; I am jogging along," answered Startsev.
And he could think of nothing more. They were silent.
"I feel so excited!" said Ekaterina Ivanovna, and she hid her
face in her hands. "But don't pay attention to it. I am so happy
to be at home; I am so glad to see every one. I can't get used
to it. So many memories! I thought we should talk without
stopping till morning."
Now he saw her face near, her shining eyes, and in the darkness
she looked younger than in the room, and even her old childish
expression seemed to have come back to her. And indeed she was
looking at him with nave curiosity, as though she wanted to get
a closer view and understanding of the man who had loved her so
ardently, with such tenderness, and so unsuccessfully; her eyes
thanked him for that love. And he remembered all that had been,
every minute detail; how he had wandered about the cemetery, how
he had returned home in the morning exhausted, and he suddenly
felt sad and regretted the past. A warmth began glowing in his
heart.
"Do you remember how I took you to the dance at the club?" he
asked. "It was dark and rainy then. . ."
The warmth was glowing now in his heart, and he longed to talk,
to rail at life. . . .
"Ech!" he said with a sigh. "You ask how I am living. How do we
live here? Why, not at all. We grow old, we grow stout, we grow
slack. Day after day passes; life slips by without colour,
without expressions, without thoughts. . . . In the daytime
working for gain, and in the evening the club, the company of
card-players, alcoholic, raucous-voiced gentlemen whom I can't
endure. What is there nice in it?"
"Well, you have work -- a noble object in life. You used to be
so fond of talking of your hospital. I was such a queer girl
then; I imagined myself such a great pianist. Nowadays all young
ladies play the piano, and I played, too, like everybody else,
and there was nothing special about me. I am just such a pianist
as my mother is an authoress. And of course I didn't understand
you then, but afterwards in Moscow I often thought of you. I
thought of no one but you. What happiness to be a district
doctor; to help the suffering; to be serving the people! What
happiness!" Ekaterina Ivanovna repeated with enthusiasm. "When I
thought of you in Moscow, you seemed to me so ideal, so lofty. .
. ."
Startsev thought of the notes he used to take out of his pockets
in the evening with such pleasure, and the glow in his heart was
quenched.
He got up to go into the house. She took his arm.
"You are the best man I've known in my life," she went on. "We
will see each other and talk, won't we? Promise me. I am not a
pianist; I am not in error about myself now, and I will not play
before you or talk of music."
When they had gone into the house, and when Startsev saw in the
lamplight her face, and her sad, grateful, searching eyes fixed
upon him, he felt uneasy and thought again:
"It's a good thing I did not marry her then."
He began taking leave.
"You have no human right to go before supper," said Ivan
Petrovitch as he saw him off. "It's extremely perpendicular on
your part. Well, now, perform!" he added, addressing Pava in the
hall.
Pava, no longer a boy, but a young man with moustaches, threw
himself into an attitude, flung up his arm, and said in a tragic
voice:
"Unhappy woman, die!"
All this irritated Startsev. Getting into his carriage, and
looking at the dark house and garden which had once been so
precious and so dear, he thought of everything at once -- Vera
Iosifovna's novels and Kitten's noisy playing, and Ivan
Petrovitch's jokes and Pava's tragic posturing, and thought if
the most talented people in the town were so futile, what must
the town be?
Three days later Pava brought a letter from Ekaterina Ivanovna.
"You don't come and see us -- why?" she wrote to him. "I am
afraid that you have changed towards us. I am afraid, and I am
terrified at the very thought of it. Reassure me; come and tell
me that everything is well.
"I must talk to you.-- Your E. I."
----
He read this letter, thought a moment, and said to Pava:
"Tell them, my good fellow, that I can't come to-day; I am very
busy. Say I will come in three days or so."
But three days passed, a week passed; he still did not go.
Happening once to drive past the Turkins' house, he thought he
must go in, if only for a moment, but on second thoughts . . .
did not go in.
And he never went to the Turkins' again.
|
|
|
