|
|
|
My Life -
Chekhov
I
II
III IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII XVIII
XIX XX
XVII My sister came after dinner on Sunday and had tea with me.
"I read a great deal now," she said, showing me the books which
she had fetched from the public library on her way to me.
"Thanks to your wife and to Vladimir, they have awakened me to
self-realization. They have been my salvation; they have made me
feel myself a human being. In old days I used to lie awake at
night with worries of all sorts, thinking what a lot of sugar we
had used in the week, or hoping the cucumbers would not be too
salt. And now, too, I lie awake at night, but I have different
thoughts. I am distressed that half my life has been passed in
such a foolish, cowardly way. I despise my past; I am ashamed of
it. And I look upon our father now as my enemy. Oh, how grateful
I am to your wife! And Vladimir! He is such a wonderful person!
They have opened my eyes!"
"That's bad that you don't sleep at night," I said.
"Do you think I am ill? Not at all. Vladimir sounded me, and
said I was perfectly well. But health is not what matters, it is
not so important. Tell me: am I right?"
She needed moral support, that was obvious. Masha had gone away.
Dr. Blagovo was in Petersburg, and there was no one left in the
town but me, to tell her she was right. She looked intently into
my face, trying to read my secret thoughts, and if I were
absorbed or silent in her presence she thought this was on her
account, and was grieved. I always had to be on my guard, and
when she asked me whether she was right I hastened to assure her
that she was right, and that I had a deep respect for her.
"Do you know they have given me a part at the Azhogins'?" she
went on. "I want to act on the stage, I want to live -- in fact,
I mean to drain the full cup. I have no talent, none, and the
part is only ten lines, but still this is immeasurably finer and
loftier than pouring out tea five times a day, and looking to
see if the cook has eaten too much. Above all, let my father see
I am capable of protest."
After tea she lay down on my bed, and lay for a little while
with her eyes closed, looking very pale.
"What weakness," she said, getting up. "Vladimir says all
city-bred women and girls are an?ic from doing nothing. What a
clever man Vladimir is! He is right, absolutely right. We must
work!"
Two days later she came to the Azhogins' with her manuscript for
the rehearsal. She was wearing a black dress with a string of
coral round her neck, and a brooch that in the distance was like
a pastry puff, and in her ears earrings sparkling with
brilliants. When I looked at her I felt uncomfortable. I was
struck by her lack of taste. That she had very inappropriately
put on earrings and brilliants, and that she was strangely
dressed, was remarked by other people too; I saw smiles on
people's faces, and heard someone say with a laugh: "Kleopatra
of Egypt."
She was trying to assume society manners, to be unconstrained
and at her ease, and so seemed artificial and strange. She had
lost simplicity and sweetness.
"I told father just now that I was going to the rehearsal," she
began, coming up to me, "and he shouted that he would not give
me his blessing, and actually almost struck me. Only fancy, I
don't know my part," she said, looking at her manuscript. "I am
sure to make a mess of it. So be it, the die is cast," she went
on in intense excitement. "The die is cast. . . ."
It seemed to her that everyone was looking at her, and that all
were amazed at the momentous step she had taken, that everyone
was expecting something special of her, and it would have been
impossible to convince her that no one was paying attention to
people so petty and insignificant as she and I were.
She had nothing to do till the third act, and her part, that of
a visitor, a provincial crony, consisted only in standing at the
door as though listening, and then delivering a brief monologue.
In the interval before her appearance, an hour and a half at
least, while they were moving about on the stage reading their
parts, drinking tea and arguing, she did not leave my side, and
was all the time muttering her part and nervously crumpling up
the manuscript. And imagining that everyone was looking at her
and waiting for her appearance, with a trembling hand she
smoothed back her hair and said to me:
"I shall certainly make a mess of it. . . . What a load on my
heart, if only you knew! I feel frightened, as though I were
just going to be led to execution."
At last her turn came.
"Kleopatra Alexyevna, it's your cue!" said the stage manager.
She came forward into the middle of the stage with an expression
of horror on her face, looking ugly and angular, and for half a
minute stood as though in a trance, perfectly motionless, and
only her big earrings shook in her ears.
"The first time you can read it," said someone.
It was clear to me that she was trembling, and trembling so much
that she could not speak, and could not unfold her manuscript,
and that she was incapable of acting her part; and I was already
on the point of going to her and saying something, when she
suddenly dropped on her knees in the middle of the stage and
broke into loud sobs.
All was commotion and hubbub. I alone stood still, leaning
against the side scene, overwhelmed by what had happened, not
understanding and not knowing what to do. I saw them lift her up
and lead her away. I saw Anyuta Blagovo come up to me; I had not
seen her in the room before, and she seemed to have sprung out
of the earth. She was wearing her hat and veil, and, as always,
had an air of having come only for a moment.
"I told her not to take a part," she said angrily, jerking out
each word abruptly and turning crimson. "It's insanity! You
ought to have prevented her!"
Madame Azhogin, in a short jacket with short sleeves, with
cigarette ash on her breast, looking thin and flat, came rapidly
towards me.
"My dear, this is terrible," she brought out, wringing her
hands, and, as her habit was, looking intently into my face.
"This is terrible! Your sister is in a condition. . . . She is
with child. Take her away, I implore you. . . ."
She was breathless with agitation, while on one side stood her
three daughters, exactly like her, thin and flat, huddling
together in a scared way. They were alarmed, overwhelmed, as
though a convict had been caught in their house. What a
disgrace, how dreadful! And yet this estimable family had spent
its life waging war on superstition; evidently they imagined
that all the superstition and error of humanity was limited to
the three candles, the thirteenth of the month, and to the
unluckiness of Monday!
"I beg you. . . I beg," repeated Madame Azhogin, pursing up her
lips in the shape of a heart on the syllable "you." "I beg you
to take her home."
|
|
|
