A.P. Chekhov -
A Joke
IT was a bright winter midday. . . . There was a sharp snapping
frost and the curls on Nadenka's temples and the down on her
upper lip were covered with silvery frost. She was holding my
arm and we were standing on a high hill. From where we stood to
the ground below there stretched a smooth sloping descent in
which the sun was reflected as in a looking-glass. Beside us was
a little sledge lined with bright red cloth.
"Let us go down, Nadyezhda Petrovna!" I besought her. "Only
once! I assure you we shall be all right and not hurt."
But Nadenka was afraid. The slope from her little goloshes to
the bottom of the ice hill seemed to her a terrible, immensely
deep abyss. Her spirit failed her, and she held her breath as
she looked down, when I merely suggested her getting into the
sledge, but what would it be if she were to risk flying into the
abyss! She would die, she would go out of her mind.
"I entreat you!" I said. "You mustn't be afraid! You know it's
poor-spirited, it's cowardly!"
Nadenka gave way at last, and from her face I saw that she gave
way in mortal dread. I sat her in the sledge, pale and
trembling, put my arm round her and with her cast myself down
the precipice.
The sledge flew like a bullet. The air cleft by our flight beat
in our faces, roared, whistled in our ears, tore at us, nipped
us cruelly in its anger, tried to tear our heads off our
shoulders. We had hardly strength to breathe from the pressure
of the wind. It seemed as though the devil himself had caught us
in his claws and was dragging us with a roar to hell.
Surrounding objects melted into one long furiously racing streak
. . . another moment and it seemed we should perish.
"I love you, Nadya!" I said in a low voice.
The sledge began moving more and more slowly, the roar of the
wind and the whirr of the runners was no longer so terrible, it
was easier to breathe, and at last we were at the bottom.
Nadenka was more dead than alive. She was pale and scarcely
breathing. . . . I helped her to get up.
"Nothing would induce me to go again," she said, looking at me
with wide eyes full of horror. "Nothing in the world! I almost
died!"
A little later she recovered herself and looked enquiringly into
my eyes, wondering had I really uttered those four words or had
she fancied them in the roar of the hurricane. And I stood
beside her smoking and looking attentively at my glove.
She took my arm and we spent a long while walking near the
ice-hill. The riddle evidently would not let her rest. . . . Had
those words been uttered or not? . . . Yes or no? Yes or no? It
was the question of pride, or honour, of life -- a very
important question, the most important question in the world.
Nadenka kept impatiently, sorrowfully looking into my face with
a penetrating glance; she answered at random, waiting to see
whether I would not speak. Oh, the play of feeling on that sweet
face! I saw that she was struggling with herself, that she
wanted to say something, to ask some question, but she could not
find the words; she felt awkward and frightened and troubled by
her joy. . . .
"Do you know what," she said without looking at me.
"Well?" I asked.
"Let us . . . slide down again."
We clambered up the ice-hill by the steps again. I sat Nadenka,
pale and trembling, in the sledge; again we flew into the
terrible abyss, again the wind roared and the runners whirred,
and again when the flight of our sledge was at its swiftest and
noisiest, I said in a low voice:
"I love you, Nadenka!"
When the sledge stopped, Nadenka flung a glance at the hill down
which we had both slid, then bent a long look upon my face,
listened to my voice which was unconcerned and passionless, and
the whole of her little figure, every bit of it, even her muff
and her hood expressed the utmost bewilderment, and on her face
was written: "What does it mean? Who uttered those words? Did
he, or did I only fancy it?"
The uncertainty worried her and drove her out of all patience.
The poor girl did not answer my questions, frowned, and was on
the point of tears.
"Hadn't we better go home?" I asked.
"Well, I . . . I like this tobogganning," she said, flushing.
"Shall we go down once more?"
She "liked" the tobogganning, and yet as she got into the sledge
she was, as both times before, pale, trembling, hardly able to
breathe for terror.
We went down for the third time, and I saw she was looking at my
face and watching my lips. But I put my handkerchief to my lips,
coughed, and when we reached the middle of the hill I succeeded
in bringing out:
"I love you, Nadya!"
And the mystery remained a mystery! Nadenka was silent,
pondering on something. . . . I saw her home, she tried to walk
slowly, slackened her pace and kept waiting to see whether I
would not say those words to her, and I saw how her soul was
suffering, what effort she was making not to say to herself:
"It cannot be that the wind said them! And I don't want it to be
the wind that said them!"
Next morning I got a little note:
"If you are tobogganning to-day, come for me. --N."
And from that time I began going every day tobogganning with
Nadenka, and as we flew down in the sledge, every time I
pronounced in a low voice the same words: "I love you, Nadya!"
Soon Nadenka grew used to that phrase as to alcohol or morphia.
She could not live without it. It is true that flying down the
ice-hill terrified her as before, but now the terror and danger
gave a peculiar fascination to words of love -- words which as
before were a mystery and tantalized the soul. The same two --
the wind and I were still suspected. . . . Which of the two was
making love to her she did not know, but apparently by now she
did not care; from which goblet one drinks matters little if
only the beverage is intoxicating.
It happened I went to the skating-ground alone at midday;
mingling with the crowd I saw Nadenka go up to the ice-hill and
look about for me. . . then she timidly mounted the steps. . . .
She was frightened of going alone -- oh, how frightened! She was
white as the snow, she was trembling, she went as though to the
scaffold, but she went, she went without looking back,
resolutely. She had evidently determined to put it to the test
at last: would those sweet amazing words be heard when I was not
there? I saw her, pale, her lips parted with horror, get into
the sledge, shut her eyes and saying good-bye for ever to the
earth, set off. . . . "Whrrr!" whirred the runners. Whether
Nadenka heard those words I do not know. I only saw her getting
up from the sledge looking faint and exhausted. And one could
tell from her face that she could not tell herself whether she
had heard anything or not. Her terror while she had been flying
down had deprived of her all power of hearing, of discriminating
sounds, of understanding.
But then the month of March arrived . . . the spring sunshine
was more kindly. . . . Our ice-hill turned dark, lost its
brilliance and finally melted. We gave up tobogganning. There
was nowhere now where poor Nadenka could hear those words, and
indeed no one to utter them, since there was no wind and I was
going to Petersburg -- for long, perhaps for ever.
It happened two days before my departure I was sitting in the
dusk in the little garden which was separated from the yard of
Nadenka's house by a high fence with nails in it. . . . It was
still pretty cold, there was still snow by the manure heap, the
trees looked dead but there was already the scent of spring and
the rooks were cawing loudly as they settled for their night's
rest. I went up to the fence and stood for a long while peeping
through a chink. I saw Nadenka come out into the porch and fix a
mournful yearning gaze on the sky. . . . The spring wind was
blowing straight into her pale dejected face. . . . It reminded
her of the wind which roared at us on the ice-hill when she
heard those four words, and her face became very, very
sorrowful, a tear trickled down her cheek, and the poor child
held out both arms as though begging the wind to bring her those
words once more. And waiting for the wind I said in a low voice:
"I love you, Nadya!"
Mercy! The change that came over Nadenka! She uttered a cry,
smiled all over her face and looking joyful, happy and
beautiful, held out her arms to meet the wind.
And I went off to pack up. . . .
That was long ago. Now Nadenka is married; she married --
whether of her own choice or not does not matter -- a secretary
of the Nobility Wardenship and now she has three children. That
we once went tobogganning together, and that the wind brought
her the words "I love you, Nadenka," is not forgotten; it is for
her now the happiest, most touching, and beautiful memory in her
life. . . .
But now that I am older I cannot understand why I uttered those
words, what was my motive in that joke. . . .
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