A.P. Chekhov - Love
"THREE o'clock in the morning. The soft April night is looking
in at my windows and caressingly winking at me with its stars. I
can't sleep, I am so happy!
"My whole being from head to heels is bursting with a strange,
incomprehensible feeling. I can't analyse it just now -- I
haven't the time, I'm too lazy, and there -- hang analysis! Why,
is a man likely to interpret his sensations when he is flying
head foremost from a belfry, or has just learned that he has won
two hundred thousand? Is he in a state to do it?"
This was more or less how I began my love-letter to Sasha, a
girl of nineteen with whom I had fallen in love. I began it five
times, and as often tore up the sheets, scratched out whole
pages, and copied it all over again. I spent as long over the
letter as if it had been a novel I had to write to order. And it
was not because I tried to make it longer, more elaborate, and
more fervent, but because I wanted endlessly to prolong the
process of this writing, when one sits in the stillness of one's
study and communes with one's own day-dreams while the spring
night looks in at one's window. Between the lines I saw a
beloved image, and it seemed to me that there were, sitting at
the same table writing with me, spirits as navely happy, as
foolish, and as blissfully smiling as I. I wrote continually,
looking at my hand, which still ached deliciously where hers had
lately pressed it, and if I turned my eyes away I had a vision
of the green trellis of the little gate. Through that trellis
Sasha gazed at me after I had said goodbye to her. When I was
saying good-bye to Sasha I was thinking of nothing and was
simply admiring her figure as every decent man admires a pretty
woman; when I saw through the trellis two big eyes, I suddenly,
as though by inspiration, knew that I was in love, that it was
all settled between us, and fully decided already, that I had
nothing left to do but to carry out certain formalities.
It is a great delight also to seal up a love-letter, and, slowly
putting on one's hat and coat, to go softly out of the house and
to carry the treasure to the post. There are no stars in the sky
now: in their place there is a long whitish streak in the east,
broken here and there by clouds above the roofs of the dingy
houses; from that streak the whole sky is flooded with pale
light. The town is asleep, but already the water-carts have come
out, and somewhere in a far-away factory a whistle sounds to
wake up the workpeople. Beside the postbox, slightly moist with
dew, you are sure to see the clumsy figure of a house porter,
wearing a bell-shaped sheepskin and carrying a stick. He is in a
condition akin to catalepsy: he is not asleep or awake, but
If the boxes knew how often people resort to them for the
decision of their fate, they would not have such a humble air.
I, anyway, almost kissed my postbox, and as I gazed at it I
reflected that the post is the greatest of blessings.
I beg anyone who has ever been in love to remember how one
usually hurries home after dropping the letter in the box,
rapidly gets into bed and pulls up the quilt in the full
conviction that as soon as one wakes up in the morning one will
be overwhelmed with memories of the previous day and look with
rapture at the window, where the daylight will be eagerly making
its way through the folds of the curtain.
Well, to facts. . . . Next morning at midday, Sasha's maid
brought me the following answer: "I am delited be sure to come
to us to day please I shall expect you. Your S."
Not a single comma. This lack of punctuation, and the
misspelling of the word "delighted," the whole letter, and even
the long, narrow envelope in which it was put filled my heart
with tenderness. In the sprawling but diffident handwriting I
recognised Sasha's walk, her way of raising her eyebrows when
she laughed, the movement of her lips. . . . But the contents of
the letter did not satisfy me. In the first place, poetical
letters are not answered in that way, and in the second, why
should I go to Sasha's house to wait till it should occur to her
stout mamma, her brothers, and poor relations to leave us alone
together? It would never enter their heads, and nothing is more
hateful than to have to restrain one's raptures simply because
of the intrusion of some animate trumpery in the shape of a
half-deaf old woman or little girl pestering one with questions.
I sent an answer by the maid asking Sasha to select some park or
boulevard for a rendezvous. My suggestion was readily accepted.
I had struck the right chord, as the saying is.
Between four and five o'clock in the afternoon I made my way to
the furthest and most overgrown part of the park. There was not
a soul in the park, and the tryst might have taken place
somewhere nearer in one of the avenues or arbours, but women
don't like doing it by halves in romantic affairs; in for a
penny, in for a pound -- if you are in for a tryst, let it be in
the furthest and most impenetrable thicket, where one runs the
risk of stumbling upon some rough or drunken man. When I went up
to Sasha she was standing with her back to me, and in that back
I could read a devilish lot of mystery. It seemed as though that
back and the nape of her neck, and the black spots on her dress
were saying: Hush! . . . The girl was wearing a simple cotton
dress over which she had thrown a light cape. To add to the air
of mysterious secrecy, her face was covered with a white veil.
Not to spoil the effect, I had to approach on tiptoe and speak
in a half whisper.
From what I remember now, I was not so much the essential point
of the rendezvous as a detail of it. Sasha was not so much
absorbed in the interview itself as in its romantic
mysteriousness, my kisses, the silence of the gloomy trees, my
vows. . . . There was not a minute in which she forgot herself,
was overcome, or let the mysterious expression drop from her
face, and really if there had been any Ivan Sidoritch or Sidor
Ivanitch in my place she would have felt just as happy. How is
one to make out in such circumstances whether one is loved or
not? Whether the love is "the real thing" or not?
From the park I took Sasha home with me. The presence of the
beloved woman in one's bachelor quarters affects one like wine
and music. Usually one begins to speak of the future, and the
confidence and self-reliance with which one does so is beyond
bounds. You make plans and projects, talk fervently of the rank
of general though you have not yet reached the rank of a
lieutenant, and altogether you fire off such high-flown nonsense
that your listener must have a great deal of love and ignorance
of life to assent to it. Fortunately for men, women in love are
always blinded by their feelings and never know anything of
life. Far from not assenting, they actually turn pale with holy
awe, are full of reverence and hang greedily on the maniac's
words. Sasha listened to me with attention, but I soon detected
an absent-minded expression on her face, she did not understand
me. The future of which I talked interested her only in its
external aspect and I was wasting time in displaying my plans
and projects before her. She was keenly interested in knowing
which would be her room, what paper she would have in the room,
why I had an upright piano instead of a grand piano, and so on.
She examined carefully all the little things on my table, looked
at the photographs, sniffed at the bottles, peeled the old
stamps off the envelopes, saying she wanted them for something.
"Please collect old stamps for me!" she said, making a grave
face. "Please do."
Then she found a nut in the window, noisily cracked it and ate
"Why don't you stick little labels on the backs of your books?"
she asked, taking a look at the bookcase.
"Oh, so that each book should have its number. And where am I to
put my books? I've got books too, you know."
"What books have you got?" I asked.
Sasha raised her eyebrows, thought a moment and said:
And if it had entered my head to ask her what thoughts, what
convictions, what aims she had, she would no doubt have raised
her eyebrows, thought a minute, and have said in the same way:
Later I saw Sasha home and left her house regularly, officially
engaged, and was so reckoned till our wedding. If the reader
will allow me to judge merely from my personal experience, I
maintain that to be engaged is very dreary, far more so than to
be a husband or nothing at all. An engaged man is neither one
thing nor the other, he has left one side of the river and not
reached the other, he is not married and yet he can't be said to
be a bachelor, but is in something not unlike the condition of
the porter whom I have mentioned above.
Every day as soon as I had a free moment I hastened to my
fiance. As I went I usually bore within me a multitude of
hopes, desires, intentions, suggestions, phrases. I always
fancied that as soon as the maid opened the door I should, from
feeling oppressed and stifled, plunge at once up to my neck into
a sea of refreshing happiness. But it always turned out
otherwise in fact. Every time I went to see my fiance I found
all her family and other members of the household busy over the
silly trousseau. (And by the way, they were hard at work sewing
for two months and then they had less than a hundred roubles'
worth of things). There was a smell of irons, candle grease and
fumes. Bugles scrunched under one's feet. The two most important
rooms were piled up with billows of linen, calico, and muslin
and from among the billows peeped out Sasha's little head with a
thread between her teeth. All the sewing party welcomed me with
cries of delight but at once led me off into the dining-room
where I could not hinder them nor see what only husbands are
permitted to behold. In spite of my feelings, I had to sit in
the dining-room and converse with Pimenovna, one of the poor
relations. Sasha, looking worried and excited, kept running by
me with a thimble, a skein of wool or some other boring object.
"Wait, wait, I shan't be a minute," she would say when I raised
imploring eyes to her. "Only fancy that wretch Stepanida has
spoilt the bodice of the barge dress!"
And after waiting in vain for this grace, I lost my temper, went
out of the house and walked about the streets in the company of
the new cane I had bought. Or I would want to go for a walk or a
drive with my fiance, would go round and find her already
standing in the hall with her mother, dressed to go out and
playing with her parasol.
"Oh, we are going to the Arcade," she would say. "We have got to
buy some more cashmere and change the hat."
My outing is knocked on the head. I join the ladies and go with
them to the Arcade. It is revoltingly dull to listen to women
shopping, haggling and trying to outdo the sharp shopman. I felt
ashamed when Sasha, after turning over masses of material and
knocking down the prices to a minimum, walked out of the shop
without buying anything, or else told the shopman to cut her
some half rouble's worth.
When they came out of the shop, Sasha and her mamma with scared
and worried faces would discuss at length having made a mistake,
having bought the wrong thing, the flowers in the chintz being
too dark, and so on.
Yes, it is a bore to be engaged! I'm glad it's over.
Now I am married. It is evening. I am sitting in my study
reading. Behind me on the sofa Sasha is sitting munching
something noisily. I want a glass of beer.
"Sasha, look for the corkscrew. . . ." I say. "It's lying about
Sasha leaps up, rummages in a disorderly way among two or three
heaps of papers, drops the matches, and without finding the
corkscrew, sits down in silence. . . . Five minutes pass -- ten.
. . I begin to be fretted both by thirst and vexation.
"Sasha, do look for the corkscrew," I say.
Sasha leaps up again and rummages among the papers near me. Her
munching and rustling of the papers affects me like the sound of
sharpening knives against each other. . . . I get up and begin
looking for the corkscrew myself. At last it is found and the
beer is uncorked. Sasha remains by the table and begins telling
me something at great length.
"You'd better read something, Sasha," I say.
She takes up a book, sits down facing me and begins moving her
lips. . . . I look at her little forehead, moving lips, and sink
"She is getting on for twenty. . . ." I reflect. "If one takes a
boy of the educated class and of that age and compares them,
what a difference! The boy would have knowledge and convictions
and some intelligence."
But I forgive that difference just as the low forehead and
moving lips are forgiven. I remember in my old Lovelace days I
have cast off women for a stain on their stockings, or for one
foolish word, or for not cleaning their teeth, and now I forgive
everything: the munching, the muddling about after the
corkscrew, the slovenliness, the long talking about nothing that
matters; I forgive it all almost unconsciously, with no effort
of will, as though Sasha's mistakes were my mistakes, and many
things which would have made me wince in old days move me to
tenderness and even rapture. The explanation of this forgiveness
of everything lies in my love for Sasha, but what is the
explanation of the love itself, I really don't know.
Lovelace: Richard Lovelace (1618-1658) was an English poet