A.P. Chekhov - The Schoolmaster
FYODOR LUKITCH SYSOEV, the master of the factory school
maintained at the expense of the firm of Kulikin, was getting
ready for the annual dinner. Every year after the school
examination the board of managers gave a dinner at which the
inspector of elementary schools, all who had conducted the
examinations, and all the managers and foremen of the factory
were present. In spite of their official character, these
dinners were always good and lively, and the guests sat a long
time over them; forgetting distinctions of rank and recalling
only their meritorious labours, they ate till they were full,
drank amicably, chattered till they were all hoarse and parted
late in the evening, deafening the whole factory settlement with
their singing and the sound of their kisses. Of such dinners
Sysoev had taken part in thirteen, as he had been that number of
years master of the factory school.
Now, getting ready for the fourteenth, he was trying to make
himself look as festive and correct as possible. He had spent a
whole hour brushing his new black suit, and spent almost as long
in front of a looking-glass while he put on a fashionable shirt;
the studs would not go into the button-holes, and this
circumstance called forth a perfect storm of complaints,
threats, and reproaches addressed to his wife.
His poor wife, bustling round him, wore herself out with her
efforts. And indeed he, too, was exhausted in the end. When his
polished boots were brought him from the kitchen he had not
strength to pull them on. He had to lie down and have a drink of
"How weak you have grown!" sighed his wife. "You ought not to go
to this dinner at all."
"No advice, please!" the schoolmaster cut her short angrily.
He was in a very bad temper, for he had been much displeased
with the recent examinations. The examinations had gone off
splendidly; all the boys of the senior division had gained
certificates and prizes; both the managers of the factory and
the government officials were pleased with the results; but that
was not enough for the schoolmaster. He was vexed that Babkin, a
boy who never made a mistake in writing, had made three mistakes
in the dictation; Sergeyev, another boy, had been so excited
that he could not remember seventeen times thirteen; the
inspector, a young and inexperienced man, had chosen a difficult
article for dictation, and Lyapunov, the master of a
neighbouring school, whom the inspector had asked to dictate,
had not behaved like "a good comrade"; but in dictating had, as
it were, swallowed the words and had not pronounced them as
After pulling on his boots with the assistance of his wife, and
looking at himself once more in the looking-glass, the
schoolmaster took his gnarled stick and set off for the dinner.
Just before the factory manager's house, where the festivity was
to take place, he had a little mishap. He was taken with a
violent fit of coughing. . . . He was so shaken by it that the
cap flew off his head and the stick dropped out of his hand; and
when the school inspector and the teachers, hearing his cough,
ran out of the house, he was sitting on the bottom step, bathed
"Fyodor Lukitch, is that you?" said the inspector, surprised.
"You . . . have come?"
"You ought to be at home, my dear fellow. You are not at all
well to-day. . . ."
"I am just the same to-day as I was yesterday. And if my
presence is not agreeable to you, I can go back."
"Oh, Fyodor Lukitch, you must not talk like that! Please come
in. Why, the function is really in your honour, not ours. And we
are delighted to see you. Of course we are! . . ."
Within, everything was ready for the banquet. In the big
dining-room adorned with German oleographs and smelling of
geraniums and varnish there were two tables, a larger one for
the dinner and a smaller one for the hors-d'oeuvres. The hot
light of midday faintly percolated through the lowered blinds. .
. . The twilight of the room, the Swiss views on the blinds, the
geraniums, the thin slices of sausage on the plates, all had a
nave, girlishly-sentimental air, and it was all in keeping with
the master of the house, a good-natured little German with a
round little stomach and affectionate, oily little eyes. Adolf
Andreyitch Bruni (that was his name) was bustling round the
table of hors-d'oeuvres as zealously as though it were a house
on fire, filling up the wine-glasses, loading the plates, and
trying in every way to please, to amuse, and to show his
friendly feelings. He clapped people on the shoulder, looked
into their eyes, chuckled, rubbed his hands, in fact was as
ingratiating as a friendly dog.
"Whom do I behold? Fyodor Lukitch!" he said in a jerky voice, on
seeing Sysoev. "How delightful! You have come in spite of your
illness. Gentlemen, let me congratulate you, Fyodor Lukitch has
The school-teachers were already crowding round the table and
eating the hors-d'oeuvres. Sysoev frowned; he was displeased
that his colleagues had begun to eat and drink without waiting
for him. He noticed among them Lyapunov, the man who had
dictated at the examination, and going up to him, began:
"It was not acting like a comrade! No, indeed! Gentlemanly
people don't dictate like that!"
"Good Lord, you are still harping on it!" said Lyapunov, and he
frowned. "Aren't you sick of it?"
"Yes, still harping on it! My Babkin has never made mistakes! I
know why you dictated like that. You simply wanted my pupils to
be floored, so that your school might seem better than mine. I
know all about it! . . ."
"Why are you trying to get up a quarrel?" Lyapunov snarled. "Why
the devil do you pester me?"
"Come, gentlemen," interposed the inspector, making a woebegone
face. "Is it worth while to get so heated over a trifle? Three
mistakes . . . not one mistake . . . does it matter?"
"Yes, it does matter. Babkin has never made mistakes."
"He won't leave off," Lyapunov went on, snorting angrily. "He
takes advantage of his position as an invalid and worries us all
to death. Well, sir, I am not going to consider your being ill."
"Let my illness alone!" cried Sysoev, angrily. "What is it to do
with you? They all keep repeating it at me: illness! illness!
illness! . . . As though I need your sympathy! Besides, where
have you picked up the notion that I am ill? I was ill before
the examinations, that's true, but now I have completely
recovered, there is nothing left of it but weakness."
"You have regained your health, well, thank God," said the
scripture teacher, Father Nikolay, a young priest in a foppish
cinnamon-coloured cassock and trousers outside his boots. "You
ought to rejoice, but you are irritable and so on."
"You are a nice one, too," Sysoev interrupted him. "Questions
ought to be straightforward, clear, but you kept asking riddles.
That's not the thing to do!"
By combined efforts they succeeded in soothing him and making
him sit down to the table. He was a long time making up his mind
what to drink, and pulling a wry face drank a wine-glass of some
green liqueur; then he drew a bit of pie towards him, and
sulkily picked out of the inside an egg with onion on it. At the
first mouthful it seemed to him that there was no salt in it. He
sprinkled salt on it and at once pushed it away as the pie was
At dinner Sysoev was seated between the inspector and Bruni.
After the first course the toasts began, according to the
"I consider it my agreeable duty," the inspector began, "to
propose a vote of thanks to the absent school wardens, Daniel
Petrovitch and . . . and . . . and . . ."
"And Ivan Petrovitch," Bruni prompted him.
"And Ivan Petrovitch Kulikin, who grudge no expense for the
school, and I propose to drink their health. . . ."
"For my part," said Bruni, jumping up as though he had been
stung, "I propose a toast to the health of the honoured
inspector of elementary schools, Pavel Gennadievitch Nadarov!"
Chairs were pushed back, faces beamed with smiles, and the usual
clinking of glasses began.
The third toast always fell to Sysoev. And on this occasion,
too, he got up and began to speak. Looking grave and clearing
his throat, he first of all announced that he had not the gift
of eloquence and that he was not prepared to make a speech.
Further he said that during the fourteen years that he had been
schoolmaster there had been many intrigues, many underhand
attacks, and even secret reports on him to the authorities, and
that he knew his enemies and those who had informed against him,
and he would not mention their names, "for fear of spoiling
somebody's appetite"; that in spite of these intrigues the
Kulikin school held the foremost place in the whole province not
only from a moral, but also from a material point of view."
"Everywhere else," he said, "schoolmasters get two hundred or
three hundred roubles, while I get five hundred, and moreover my
house has been redecorated and even furnished at the expense of
the firm. And this year all the walls have been repapered. . .
Further the schoolmaster enlarged on the liberality with which
the pupils were provided with writing materials in the factory
schools as compared with the Zemstvo and Government schools. And
for all this the school was indebted, in his opinion, not to the
heads of the firm, who lived abroad and scarcely knew of its
existence, but to a man who, in spite of his German origin and
Lutheran faith, was a Russian at heart.
Sysoev spoke at length, with pauses to get his breath and with
pretensions to rhetoric, and his speech was boring and
unpleasant. He several times referred to certain enemies of his,
tried to drop hints, repeated himself, coughed, and flourished
his fingers unbecomingly. At last he was exhausted and in a
perspiration and he began talking jerkily, in a low voice as
though to himself, and finished his speech not quite coherently:
"And so I propose the health of Bruni, that is Adolf Andreyitch,
who is here, among us . . . generally speaking . . . you
understand . . ."
When he finished everyone gave a faint sigh, as though someone
had sprinkled cold water and cleared the air. Bruni alone
apparently had no unpleasant feeling. Beaming and rolling his
sentimental eyes, the German shook Sysoev's hand with feeling
and was again as friendly as a dog.
"Oh, I thank you," he said, with an emphasis on the oh, laying
his left hand on his heart. "I am very happy that you understand
me! I, with my whole heart, wish you all things good. But I
ought only to observe; you exaggerate my importance. The school
owes its flourishing condition only to you, my honoured friend,
Fyodor Lukitch. But for you it would be in no way distinguished
from other schools! You think the German is paying a compliment,
the German is saying something polite. Ha-ha! No, my dear Fyodor
Lukitch, I am an honest man and never make complimentary
speeches. If we pay you five hundred roubles a year it is
because you are valued by us. Isn't that so? Gentlemen, what I
say is true, isn't it? We should not pay anyone else so much. .
. . Why, a good school is an honour to the factory!"
"I must sincerely own that your school is really exceptional,"
said the inspector. "Don't think this is flattery. Anyway, I
have never come across another like it in my life. As I sat at
the examination I was full of admiration. . . . Wonderful
children! They know a great deal and answer brightly, and at the
same time they are somehow special, unconstrained, sincere. . .
. One can see that they love you, Fyodor Lukitch. You are a
schoolmaster to the marrow of your bones. You must have been
born a teacher. You have all the gifts -- innate vocation, long
experience, and love for your work. . . . It's simply amazing,
considering the weak state of your health, what energy, what
understanding . . . what perseverance, do you understand, what
confidence you have! Some one in the school committee said truly
that you were a poet in your work. . . . Yes, a poet you are!"
And all present at the dinner began as one man talking of
Sysoev's extraordinary talent. And as though a dam had been
burst, there followed a flood of sincere, enthusiastic words
such as men do not utter when they are restrained by prudent and
cautious sobriety. Sysoev's speech and his intolerable temper
and the horrid, spiteful expression on his face were all
forgotten. Everyone talked freely, even the shy and silent new
teachers, poverty-stricken, down-trodden youths who never spoke
to the inspector without addressing him as "your honour." It was
clear that in his own circle Sysoev was a person of consequence.
Having been accustomed to success and praise for the fourteen
years that he had been schoolmaster, he listened with
indifference to the noisy enthusiasm of his admirers.
It was Bruni who drank in the praise instead of the
schoolmaster. The German caught every word, beamed, clapped his
hands, and flushed modestly as though the praise referred not to
the schoolmaster but to him.
"Bravo! bravo!" he shouted. "That's true! You have grasped my
meaning! . . . Excellent! . . ." He looked into the
schoolmaster's eyes as though he wanted to share his bliss with
him. At last he could restrain himself no longer; he leapt up,
and, overpowering all the other voices with his shrill little
"Gentlemen! Allow me to speak! Sh-h! To all you say I can make
only one reply: the management of the factory will not be
forgetful of what it owes to Fyodor Lukitch! . . ."
All were silent. Sysoev raised his eyes to the German's rosy
"We know how to appreciate it," Bruni went on, dropping his
voice. "In response to your words I ought to tell you that . . .
Fyodor Lukitch's family will be provided for and that a sum of
money was placed in the bank a month ago for that object."
Sysoev looked enquiringly at the German, at his colleagues, as
though unable to understand why his family should be provided
for and not he himself. And at once on all the faces, in all the
motionless eyes bent upon him, he read not the sympathy, not the
commiseration which he could not endure, but something else,
something soft, tender, but at the same time intensely sinister,
like a terrible truth, something which in one instant turned him
cold all over and filled his soul with unutterable despair. With
a pale, distorted face he suddenly jumped up and clutched at his
head. For a quarter of a minute he stood like that, stared with
horror at a fixed point before him as though he saw the swiftly
coming death of which Bruni was speaking, then sat down and
burst into tears.
"Come, come! . . . What is it?" he heard agitated voices saying.
"Water! drink a little water!"
A short time passed and the schoolmaster grew calmer, but the
party did not recover their previous liveliness. The dinner
ended in gloomy silence, and much earlier than on previous
When he got home Sysoev first of all looked at himself in the
"Of course there was no need for me to blubber like that!" he
thought, looking at his sunken cheeks and his eyes with dark
rings under them. "My face is a much better colour to-day than
yesterday. I am suffering from anemia and catarrh of the
stomach, and my cough is only a stomach cough."
Reassured, he slowly began undressing, and spent a long time
brushing his new black suit, then carefully folded it up and put
it in the chest of drawers.
Then he went up to the table where there lay a pile of his
pupils' exercise-books, and picking out Babkin's, sat down and
fell to contemplating the beautiful childish handwriting. . . .
And meantime, while he was examining the exercise-books, the
district doctor was sitting in the next room and telling his
wife in a whisper that a man ought not to have been allowed to
go out to dinner who had not in all probability more than a week
oleographs: imitation oil paintings
zemstvo: a district council with locally elected members
catarrh: an inflammation