A.P. Chekhov - Excellent People
ONCE upon a time there lived in Moscow a man called Vladimir
Semyonitch Liadovsky. He took his degree at the university in
the faculty of law and had a post on the board of management of
some railway; but if you had asked him what his work was, he
would look candidly and openly at you with his large bright eyes
through his gold pincenez, and would answer in a soft, velvety,
"My work is literature."
After completing his course at the university, Vladimir
Semyonitch had had a paragraph of theatrical criticism accepted
by a newspaper. From this paragraph he passed on to reviewing,
and a year later he had advanced to writing a weekly article on
literary matters for the same paper. But it does not follow from
these facts that he was an amateur, that his literary work was
of an ephemeral, haphazard character. Whenever I saw his neat
spare figure, his high forehead and long mane of hair, when I
listened to his speeches, it always seemed to me that his
writing, quite apart from what and how he wrote, was something
organically part of him, like the beating of his heart, and that
his whole literary programme must have been an integral part of
his brain while he was a baby in his mother's womb. Even in his
walk, his gestures, his manner of shaking off the ash from his
cigarette, I could read this whole programme from A to Z, with
all its claptrap, dulness, and honourable sentiments. He was a
literary man all over when with an inspired face he laid a
wreath on the coffin of some celebrity, or with a grave and
solemn face collected signatures for some address; his passion
for making the acquaintance of distinguished literary men, his
faculty for finding talent even where it was absent, his
perpetual enthusiasm, his pulse that went at one hundred and
twenty a minute, his ignorance of life, the genuinely feminine
flutter with which he threw himself into concerts and literary
evenings for the benefit of destitute students, the way in which
he gravitated towards the young -- all this would have created
for him the reputation of a writer even if he had not written
He was one of those writers to whom phrases like, "We are but
few," or "What would life be without strife? Forward!" were
pre-eminently becoming, though he never strove with any one and
never did go forward. It did not even sound mawkish when he fell
to discoursing of ideals. Every anniversary of the university,
on St. Tatiana's Day, he got drunk, chanted Gaudeamus out of
tune, and his beaming and perspiring countenance seemed to say:
"See, I'm drunk; I'm keeping it up!" But even that suited him.
Vladimir Semyonitch had genuine faith in his literary vocation
and his whole programme. He had no doubts, and was evidently
very well pleased with himself. Only one thing grieved him --
the paper for which he worked had a limited circulation and was
not very influential. But Vladimir Semyonitch believed that
sooner or later he would succeed in getting on to a solid
magazine where he would have scope and could display himself --
and what little distress he felt on this score was pale beside
the brilliance of his hopes.
Visiting this charming man, I made the acquaintance of his
sister, Vera Semyonovna, a woman doctor. At first sight, what
struck me about this woman was her look of exhaustion and
extreme ill-health. She was young, with a good figure and
regular, rather large features, but in comparison with her
agile, elegant, and talkative brother she seemed angular,
listless, slovenly, and sullen. There was something strained,
cold, apathetic in her movements, smiles, and words; she was not
liked, and was thought proud and not very intelligent.
In reality, I fancy, she was resting.
"My dear friend," her brother would often say to me, sighing and
flinging back his hair in his picturesque literary way, "one
must never judge by appearances! Look at this book: it has long
ago been read. It is warped, tattered, and lies in the dust
uncared for; but open it, and it will make you weep and turn
pale. My sister is like that book. Lift the cover and peep into
her soul, and you will be horror-stricken. Vera passed in some
three months through experiences that would have been ample for
a whole lifetime!"
Vladimir Semyonitch looked round him, took me by the sleeve, and
began to whisper:
"You know, after taking her degree she married, for love, an
architect. It's a complete tragedy! They had hardly been married
a month when -- whew -- her husband died of typhus. But that was
not all. She caught typhus from him, and when, on her recovery,
she learnt that her Ivan was dead, she took a good dose of
morphia. If it had not been for vigorous measures taken by her
friends, my Vera would have been by now in Paradise. Tell me,
isn't it a tragedy? And is not my sister like an ingnue, who
has played already all the five acts of her life? The audience
may stay for the farce, but the ingnue must go home to rest."
After three months of misery Vera Semyonovna had come to live
with her brother. She was not fitted for the practice of
medicine, which exhausted her and did not satisfy her; she did
not give one the impression of knowing her subject, and I never
once heard her say anything referring to her medical studies.
She gave up medicine, and, silent and unoccupied, as though she
were a prisoner, spent the remainder of her youth in colourless
apathy, with bowed head and hanging hands. The only thing to
which she was not completely indifferent, and which brought some
brightness into the twilight of her life, was the presence of
her brother, whom she loved. She loved him himself and his
programme, she was full of reverence for his articles; and when
she was asked what her brother was doing, she would answer in a
subdued voice as though afraid of waking or distracting him: "He
is writing. . . ." Usually when he was at his work she used to
sit beside him, her eyes fixed on his writing hand. She used at
such moments to look like a sick animal warming itself in the
sun. . . .
One winter evening Vladimir Semyonitch was sitting at his table
writing a critical article for his newspaper: Vera Semyonovna
was sitting beside him, staring as usual at his writing hand.
The critic wrote rapidly, without erasures or corrections. The
pen scratched and squeaked. On the table near the writing hand
there lay open a freshly-cut volume of a thick magazine,
containing a story of peasant life, signed with two initials.
Vladimir Semyonitch was enthusiastic; he thought the author was
admirable in his handling of the subject, suggested Turgenev in
his descriptions of nature, was truthful, and had an excellent
knowledge of the life of the peasantry. The critic himself knew
nothing of peasant life except from books and hearsay, but his
feelings and his inner convictions forced him to believe the
story. He foretold a brilliant future for the author, assured
him he should await the conclusion of the story with great
impatience, and so on.
"Fine story!" he said, flinging himself back in his chair and
closing his eyes with pleasure. "The tone is extremely good."
Vera Semyonovna looked at him, yawned aloud, and suddenly asked
an unexpected question. In the evening she had a habit of
yawning nervously and asking short, abrupt questions, not always
"Volodya," she asked, "what is the meaning of non-resistance to
"Non-resistance to evil!" repeated her brother, opening his
"Yes. What do you understand by it?"
"You see, my dear, imagine that thieves or brigands attack you,
and you, instead of . . ."
"No, give me a logical definition.
"A logical definition? Um! Well." Vladimir Semyonitch pondered.
"Non-resistance to evil means an attitude of non-interference
with regard to all that in the sphere of mortality is called
Saying this, Vladimir Semyonitch bent over the table and took up
a novel. This novel, written by a woman, dealt with the
painfulness of the irregular position of a society lady who was
living under the same roof with her lover and her illegitimate
child. Vladimir Semyonitch was pleased with the excellent
tendency of the story, the plot and the presentation of it.
Making a brief summary of the novel, he selected the best
passages and added to them in his account: "How true to reality,
how living, how picturesque! The author is not merely an artist;
he is also a subtle psychologist who can see into the hearts of
his characters. Take, for example, this vivid description of the
emotions of the heroine on meeting her husband," and so on.
"Volodya," Vera Semyonovna interrupted his critical effusions,
"I've been haunted by a strange idea since yesterday. I keep
wondering where we should all be if human life were ordered on
the basis of non-resistance to evil?
"In all probability, nowhere. Non-resistance to evil would give
the full rein to the criminal will, and, to say nothing of
civilisation, this would leave not one stone standing upon
another anywhere on earth."
"What would be left?"
"Bashi-Bazouke and brothels. In my next article I'll talk about
that perhaps. Thank you for reminding me."
And a week later my friend kept his promise. That was just at
the period -- in the eighties -- when people were beginning to
talk and write of non-resistance, of the right to judge, to
punish, to make war; when some people in our set were beginning
to do without servants, to retire into the country, to work on
the land, and to renounce animal food and carnal love.
After reading her brother's article, Vera Semyonovna pondered
and hardly perceptibly shrugged her shoulders.
"Very nice!" she said. "But still there's a great deal I don't
understand. For instance, in Leskov's story 'Belonging to the
Cathedral' there is a queer gardener who sows for the benefit of
all -- for customers, for beggars, and any who care to steal.
Did he behave sensibly?"
From his sister's tone and expression Vladimir Semyonitch saw
that she did not like his article, and, almost for the first
time in his life, his vanity as an author sustained a shock.
With a shade of irritation he answered:
"Theft is immoral. To sow for thieves is to recognise the right
of thieves to existence. What would you think if I were to
establish a newspaper and, dividing it into sections, provide
for blackmailing as well as for liberal ideas? Following the
example of that gardener, I ought, logically, to provide a
section for blackmailers, the intellectual scoundrels? Yes."
Vera Semyonovna made no answer. She got up from the table, moved
languidly to the sofa and lay down.
"I don't know, I know nothing about it," she said musingly. "You
are probably right, but it seems to me, I feel somehow, that
there's something false in our resistance to evil, as though
there were something concealed or unsaid. God knows, perhaps our
methods of resisting evil belong to the category of prejudices
which have become so deeply rooted in us, that we are incapable
of parting with them, and therefore cannot form a correct
judgment of them."
"How do you mean?"
"I don't know how to explain to you. Perhaps man is mistaken in
thinking that he is obliged to resist evil and has a right to do
so, just as he is mistaken in thinking, for instance, that the
heart looks like an ace of hearts. It is very possible in
resisting evil we ought not to use force, but to use what is the
very opposite of force -- if you, for instance, don't want this
picture stolen from you, you ought to give it away rather than
lock it up. . . ."
"That's clever, very clever! If I want to marry a rich, vulgar
woman, she ought to prevent me from such a shabby action by
hastening to make me an offer herself!"
The brother and sister talked till midnight without
understanding each other. If any outsider had overheard them he
would hardly have been able to make out what either of them was
They usually spent the evening at home. There were no friends'
houses to which they could go, and they felt no need for
friends; they only went to the theatre when there was a new play
-- such was the custom in literary circles -- they did not go to
concerts, for they did not care for music.
"You may think what you like," Vera Semyonovna began again the
next day, "but for me the question is to a great extent settled.
I am firmly convinced that I have no grounds for resisting evil
directed against me personally. If they want to kill me, let
them. My defending myself will not make the murderer better. All
I have now to decide is the second half of the question: how I
ought to behave to evil directed against my neighbours?"
"Vera, mind you don't become rabid!" said Vladimir Semyonitch,
laughing. "I see non-resistance is becoming your ide fixe!"
He wanted to turn off these tedious conversations with a jest,
but somehow it was beyond a jest; his smile was artificial and
sour. His sister gave up sitting beside his table and gazing
reverently at his writing hand, and he felt every evening that
behind him on the sofa lay a person who did not agree with him.
And his back grew stiff and numb, and there was a chill in his
soul. An author's vanity is vindictive, implacable, incapable of
forgiveness, and his sister was the first and only person who
had laid bare and disturbed that uneasy feeling, which is like a
big box of crockery, easy to unpack but impossible to pack up
again as it was before.
Weeks and months passed by, and his sister clung to her ideas,
and did not sit down by the table. One spring evening Vladimir
Semyonitch was sitting at his table writing an article. He was
reviewing a novel which described how a village schoolmistress
refused the man whom she loved and who loved her, a man both
wealthy and intellectual, simply because marriage made her work
as a schoolmistress impossible. Vera Semyonovna lay on the sofa
"My God, how slow it is!" she said, stretching. "How insipid and
empty life is! I don't know what to do with myself, and you are
wasting your best years in goodness knows what. Like some
alchemist, you are rummaging in old rubbish that nobody wants.
Vladimir Semyonitch dropped his pen and slowly looked round at
"It's depressing to look at you!" said his sister. "Wagner in
'Faust' dug up worms, but he was looking for a treasure, anyway,
and you are looking for worms for the sake of the worms."
"Yes, Volodya; all these days I've been thinking, I've been
thinking painfully for a long time, and I have come to the
conclusion that you are hopelessly reactionary and conventional.
Come, ask yourself what is the object of your zealous,
conscientious work? Tell me, what is it? Why, everything has
long ago been extracted that can be extracted from that rubbish
in which you are always rummaging. You may pound water in a
mortar and analyse it as long as you like, you'll make nothing
more of it than the chemists have made already. . . ."
"Indeed!" drawled Vladimir Semyonitch, getting up. "Yes, all
this is old rubbish because these ideas are eternal; but what do
you consider new, then?"
"You undertake to work in the domain of thought; it is for you
to think of something new. It's not for me to teach you."
"Me -- an alchemist!" the critic cried in wonder and
indignation, screwing up his eyes ironically. "Art, progress --
all that is alchemy?"
"You see, Volodya, it seems to me that if all you thinking
people had set yourselves to solving great problems, all these
little questions that you fuss about now would solve themselves
by the way. If you go up in a balloon to see a town, you will
incidentally, without any effort, see the fields and the
villages and the rivers as well. When stearine is manufactured,
you get glycerine as a by-product. It seems to me that
contemporary thought has settled on one spot and stuck to it. It
is prejudiced, apathetic, timid, afraid to take a wide titanic
flight, just as you and I are afraid to climb on a high
mountain; it is conservative."
Such conversations could not but leave traces. The relations of
the brother and sister grew more and more strained every day.
The brother became unable to work in his sister's presence, and
grew irritable when he knew his sister was lying on the sofa,
looking at his back; while the sister frowned nervously and
stretched when, trying to bring back the past, he attempted to
share his enthusiasms with her. Every evening she complained of
being bored, and talked about independence of mind and those who
are in the rut of tradition. Carried away by her new ideas, Vera
Semyonovna proved that the work that her brother was so
engrossed in was conventional, that it was a vain effort of
conservative minds to preserve what had already served its turn
and was vanishing from the scene of action. She made no end of
comparisons. She compared her brother at one time to an
alchemist, then to a musty old Believer who would sooner die
than listen to reason. By degrees there was a perceptible change
in her manner of life, too. She was capable of lying on the sofa
all day long doing nothing but think, while her face wore a
cold, dry expression such as one sees in one-sided people of
strong faith. She began to refuse the attentions of the
servants, swept and tidied her own room, cleaned her own boots
and brushed her own clothes. Her brother could not help looking
with irritation and even hatred at her cold face when she went
about her menial work. In that work, which was always performed
with a certain solemnity, he saw something strained and false,
he saw something both pharisaical and affected. And knowing he
could not touch her by persuasion, he carped at her and teased
her like a schoolboy.
"You won't resist evil, but you resist my having servants!" he
taunted her. "If servants are an evil, why do you oppose it?
He suffered, was indignant and even ashamed. He felt ashamed
when his sister began doing odd things before strangers.
"It's awful, my dear fellow," he said to me in private, waving
his hands in despair. "It seems that our ingnue has remained to
play a part in the farce, too. She's become morbid to the marrow
of her bones! I've washed my hands of her, let her think as she
likes; but why does she talk, why does she excite me? She ought
to think what it means for me to listen to her. What I feel when
in my presence she has the effrontery to support her errors by
blasphemously quoting the teaching of Christ! It chokes me! It
makes me hot all over to hear my sister propounding her
doctrines and trying to distort the Gospel to suit her, when she
purposely refrains from mentioning how the moneychangers were
driven out of the Temple. That's, my dear fellow, what comes of
being half educated, undeveloped! That's what comes of medical
studies which provide no general culture!"
One day on coming home from the office, Vladimir Semyonitch
found his sister crying. She was sitting on the sofa with her
head bowed, wringing her hands, and tears were flowing freely
down her cheeks. The critic's good heart throbbed with pain.
Tears fell from his eyes, too, and he longed to pet his sister,
to forgive her, to beg her forgiveness, and to live as they used
to before. . . . He knelt down and kissed her head, her hands,
her shoulders. . . . She smiled, smiled bitterly, unaccountably,
while he with a cry of joy jumped up, seized the magazine from
the table and said warmly:
"Hurrah! We'll live as we used to, Verotchka! With God's
blessing! And I've such a surprise for you here! Instead of
celebrating the occasion with champagne, let us read it
together! A splendid, wonderful thing!"
"Oh, no, no!" cried Vera Semyonovna, pushing away the book in
alarm. "I've read it already! I don't want it, I don't want it!"
"When did you read it?"
"A year . . . two years ago. . . I read it long ago, and I know
it, I know it!"
"H'm! . . . You're a fanatic!" her brother said coldly, flinging
the magazine on to the table.
"No, you are a fanatic, not I! You!" And Vera Semyonovna
dissolved into tears again. Her brother stood before her, looked
at her quivering shoulders, and thought. He thought, not of the
agonies of loneliness endured by any one who begins to think in
a new way of their own, not of the inevitable sufferings of a
genuine spiritual revolution, but of the outrage of his
programme, the outrage to his author's vanity.
From this time he treated his sister coldly, with careless
irony, and he endured her presence in the room as one endures
the presence of old women that are dependent on one. For her
part, she left off disputing with him and met all his arguments,
jeers, and attacks with a condescending silence which irritated
him more than ever.
One summer morning Vera Semyonovna, dressed for travelling with
a satchel over her shoulder, went in to her brother and coldly
kissed him on the forehead.
"Where are you going?" he asked with surprise.
"To the province of N. to do vaccination work." Her brother went
out into the street with her.
"So that's what you've decided upon, you queer girl," he
muttered. "Don't you want some money?"
"No, thank you. Good-bye."
The sister shook her brother's hand and set off.
"Why don't you have a cab?" cried Vladimir Semyonitch.
She did not answer. Her brother gazed after her, watched her
rusty-looking waterproof, the swaying of her figure as she
slouched along, forced himself to sigh, but did not succeed in
rousing a feeling of regret. His sister had become a stranger to
him. And he was a stranger to her. Anyway, she did not once look
Going back to his room, Vladimir Semyonitch at once sat down to
the table and began to work at his article.
I never saw Vera Semyonovna again. Where she is now I do not
know. And Vladimir Semyonitch went on writing his articles,
laying wreaths on coffins, singing Gaudeamus, busying himself
over the Mutual Aid Society of Moscow Journalists.
He fell ill with inflammation of the lungs; he was ill in bed
for three months -- at first at home, and afterwards in the
Golitsyn Hospital. An abscess developed in his knee. People said
he ought to be sent to the Crimea, and began getting up a
collection for him. But he did not go to the Crimea -- he died.
We buried him in the Vagankovsky Cemetery, on the left side,
where artists and literary men are buried.
One day we writers were sitting in the Tatars' restaurant. I
mentioned that I had lately been in the Vagankovsky Cemetery and
had seen Vladimir Semyonitch's grave there. It was utterly
neglected and almost indistinguishable from the rest of the
ground, the cross had fallen; it was necessary to collect a few
roubles to put it in order.
But they listened to what I said unconcernedly, made no answer,
and I could not collect a farthing. No one remembered Vladimir
Semyonitch. He was utterly forgotten.
St. Tatiana's Day: January 5 (Julian Calendar)
Gaudeamus: a student song of German origin sometimes sung at
academic exercises; the first words, Gaudeamus igitur mean "Let
us therefore rejoice"
Leskov: Nikolay S. Leskov (1831-1895) was known for the humor
and raciness of his stories
ide fixe: an obsession
ingnue: the role of an artless, innocent young woman in a
old Believer: a member of a religious sect that refused to
accept the Church reforms of 1682