A.P. Chekhov - A Father
"I ADMIT I have had a drop. . . . You must excuse me. I went
into a beer shop on the way here, and as it was so hot had a
couple of bottles. It's hot, my boy."
Old Musatov took a nondescript rag out of his pocket and wiped
his shaven, battered face with it.
"I have come only for a minute, Borenka, my angel," he went on,
not looking at his son, "about something very important. Excuse
me, perhaps I am hindering you. Haven't you ten roubles, my
dear, you could let me have till Tuesday? You see, I ought to
have paid for my lodging yesterday, and money, you see! . . .
None! Not to save my life!"
Young Musatov went out without a word, and began whispering the
other side of the door with the landlady of the summer villa and
his colleagues who had taken the villa with him. Three minutes
later he came back, and without a word gave his father a ten-rouble
note. The latter thrust it carelessly into his pocket without
looking at it, and said:
"Merci. Well, how are you getting on? It's a long time since we
"Yes, a long time, not since Easter."
"Half a dozen times I have been meaning to come to you, but I've
never had time. First one thing, then another. . . . It's simply
awful! I am talking nonsense though. . . . All that's nonsense.
Don't you believe me, Borenka. I said I would pay you back the
ten roubles on Tuesday, don't believe that either. Don't believe
a word I say. I have nothing to do at all, it's simply laziness,
drunkenness, and I am ashamed to be seen in such clothes in the
street. You must excuse me, Borenka. Here I have sent the girl
to you three times for money and written you piteous letters.
Thanks for the money, but don't believe the letters; I was
telling fibs. I am ashamed to rob you, my angel; I know that you
can scarcely make both ends meet yourself, and feed on locusts,
but my impudence is too much for me. I am such a specimen of
impudence -- fit for a show! . . . You must excuse me, Borenka.
I tell you the truth, because I can't see your angel face
A minute passed in silence. The old man heaved a deep sigh and
"You might treat me to a glass of beer perhaps."
His son went out without a word, and again there was a sound of
whispering the other side of the door. When a little later the
beer was brought in, the old man seemed to revive at the sight
of the bottles and abruptly changed his tone.
"I was at the races the other day, my boy," he began telling
him, assuming a scared expression. "We were a party of three,
and we pooled three roubles on Frisky. And, thanks to that
Frisky, we got thirty-two roubles each for our rouble. I can't
get on without the races, my boy. It's a gentlemanly diversion.
My virago always gives me a dressing over the races, but I go. I
love it, and that's all about it."
Boris, a fair-haired young man with a melancholy immobile face,
was walking slowly up and down, listening in silence. When the
old man stopped to clear his throat, he went up to him and said:
"I bought myself a pair of boots the other day, father, which
turn out to be too tight for me. Won't you take them? I'll let
you have them cheap."
"If you like," said the old man with a grimace, "only for the
price you gave for them, without any cheapening."
"Very well, I'll let you have them on credit."
The son groped under the bed and produced the new boots. The
father took off his clumsy, rusty, evidently second-hand boots
and began trying on the new ones.
"A perfect fit," he said. "Right, let me keep them. And on
Tuesday, when I get my pension, I'll send you the money for
them. That's not true, though," he went on, suddenly falling
into the same tearful tone again. "And it was a lie about the
races, too, and a lie about the pension. And you are deceiving
me, Borenka. . . . I feel your generous tactfulness. I see
through you! Your boots were too small, because your heart is
too big. Ah, Borenka, Borenka! I understand it all and feel it!"
"Have you moved into new lodgings?" his son interrupted, to
change the conversation.
"Yes, my boy. I move every month. My virago can't stay long in
the same place with her temper."
"I went to your lodgings, I meant to ask you to stay here with
me. In your state of health it would do you good to be in the
"No," said the old man, with a wave of his hand, "the woman
wouldn't let me, and I shouldn't care to myself. A hundred times
you have tried to drag me out of the pit, and I have tried
myself, but nothing came of it. Give it up. I must stick in my
filthy hole. This minute, here I am sitting, looking at your
angel face, yet something is drawing me home to my hole. Such is
my fate. You can't draw a dung-beetle to a rose. But it's time I
was going, my boy. It's getting dark."
"Wait a minute then, I'll come with you. I have to go to town
Both put on their overcoats and went out. When a little while
afterwards they were driving in a cab, it was already dark, and
lights began to gleam in the windows.
"I've robbed you, Borenka!" the father muttered. "Poor children,
poor children! It must be a dreadful trouble to have such a
father! Borenka, my angel, I cannot lie when I see your face.
You must excuse me. . . . What my depravity has come to, my God.
Here I have just been robbing you, and put you to shame with my
drunken state; I am robbing your brothers, too, and put them to
shame, and you should have seen me yesterday! I won't conceal
it, Borenka. Some neighbours, a wretched crew, came to see my
virago; I got drunk, too, with them, and I blackguarded you poor
children for all I was worth. I abused you, and complained that
you had abandoned me. I wanted, you see, to touch the drunken
hussies' hearts, and pose as an unhappy father. It's my way, you
know, when I want to screen my vices I throw all the blame on my
innocent children. I can't tell lies and hide things from you,
Borenka. I came to see you as proud as a peacock, but when I saw
your gentleness and kind heart, my tongue clave to the roof of
my mouth, and it upset my conscience completely."
"Hush, father, let's talk of something else."
"Mother of God, what children I have," the old man went on, not
heeding his son. "What wealth God has bestowed on me. Such
children ought not to have had a black sheep like me for a
father, but a real man with soul and feeling! I am not worthy of
The old man took off his cap with a button at the top and
crossed himself several times.
"Thanks be to Thee, O Lord!" he said with a sigh, looking from
side to side as though seeking for an ikon. "Remarkable,
exceptional children! I have three sons, and they are all like
one. Sober, steady, hard-working, and what brains! Cabman, what
brains! Grigory alone has brains enough for ten. He speaks
French, he speaks German, and talks better than any of your
lawyers -- one is never tired of listening. My children, my
children, I can't believe that you are mine! I can't believe it!
You are a martyr, my Borenka, I am ruining you, and I shall go
on ruining you. . . . You give to me endlessly, though you know
your money is thrown away. The other day I sent you a pitiful
letter, I described how ill I was, but you know I was lying, I
wanted the money for rum. And you give to me because you are
afraid to wound me by refusing. I know all that, and feel it.
Grisha's a martyr, too. On Thursday I went to his office, drunk,
filthy, ragged, reeking of vodka like a cellar . . . I went
straight up, such a figure, I pestered him with nasty talk,
while his colleagues and superiors and petitioners were standing
round. I have disgraced him for life. And he wasn't the least
confused, only turned a bit pale, but smiled and came up to me
as though there were nothing the matter, even introduced me to
his colleagues. Then he took me all the way home, and not a word
of reproach. I rob him worse than you. Take your brother Sasha
now, he's a martyr too! He married, as you know, a colonel's
daughter of an aristocratic circle, and got a dowry with her. .
. . You would think he would have nothing to do with me. No,
brother, after his wedding he came with his young wife and paid
me the first visit . . . in my hole. . . . Upon my soul!"
The old man gave a sob and then began laughing.
"And at that moment, as luck would have it, we were eating
grated radish with kvass and frying fish, and there was a stink
enough in the flat to make the devil sick. I was lying down --
I'd had a drop -- my virago bounced out at the young people with
her face crimson, . . . It was a disgrace in fact. But Sasha
rose superior to it all."
"Yes, our Sasha is a good fellow," said Boris.
"The most splendid fellow! You are all pure gold, you and Grisha
and Sasha and Sonya. I worry you, torment you, disgrace you, rob
you, and all my life I have not heard one word of reproach from
you, you have never given me one cross look. It would be all
very well if I had been a decent father to you -- but as it is!
You have had nothing from me but harm. I am a bad, dissipated
man. . . . Now, thank God, I am quieter and I have no strength
of will, but in old days when you were little I had
determination, will. Whatever I said or did I always thought it
was right. Sometimes I'd come home from the club at night, drunk
and ill-humoured, and scold at your poor mother for spending
money. The whole night I would be railing at her, and think it
the right thing too; you would get up in the morning and go to
school, while I'd still be venting my temper upon her. Heavens!
I did torture her, poor martyr! When you came back from school
and I was asleep you didn't dare to have dinner till I got up.
At dinner again there would be a flare up. I daresay you
remember. I wish no one such a father; God sent me to you for a
trial. Yes, for a trial! Hold out, children, to the end! Honour
thy father and thy days shall be long. Perhaps for your noble
conduct God will grant you long life. Cabman, stop!"
The old man jumped out of the cab and ran into a tavern. Half an
hour later he came back, cleared his throat in a drunken way,
and sat down beside his son.
"Where's Sonya now?" he asked. "Still at boarding-school?"
"No, she left in May, and is living now with Sasha's
"There!" said the old man in surprise. "She is a jolly good
girl! So she is following her brother's example. . . . Ah,
Borenka, she has no mother, no one to rejoice over her! I say,
Borenka, does she . . . does she know how I am living? Eh?"
Boris made no answer. Five minutes passed in profound silence.
The old man gave a sob, wiped his face with a rag and said:
"I love her, Borenka! She is my only daughter, you know, and in
one's old age there is no comfort like a daughter. Could I see
"Of course, when you like."
"Really? And she won't mind?"
"Of course not, she has been trying to find you so as to see
"Upon my soul! What children! Cabman, eh? Arrange it, Borenka
darling! She is a young lady now, delicatesse, consomm, and all
the rest of it in a refined way, and I don't want to show myself
to her in such an abject state. I'll tell you how we'll contrive
to work it. For three days I will keep away from spirits, to get
my filthy, drunken phiz into better order. Then I'll come to
you, and you shall lend me for the time some suit of yours; I'll
shave and have my hair cut, then you go and bring her to your
flat. Will you?"
The old man sprang out of the cab again and ran into a tavern.
While Boris was driving with him to his lodging he jumped out
twice again, while his son sat silent and waited patiently for
him. When, after dismissing the cab, they made their way across
a long, filthy yard to the "virago's" lodging, the old man put
on an utterly shamefaced and guilty air, and began timidly
clearing his throat and clicking with his lips.
"Borenka," he said in an ingratiating voice, "if my virago
begins saying anything, don't take any notice . . . and behave
to her, you know, affably. She is ignorant and impudent, but
she's a good baggage. There is a good, warm heart beating in her
The long yard ended, and Boris found himself in a dark entry.
The swing door creaked, there was a smell of cooking and a
smoking samovar. There was a sound of harsh voices. Passing
through the passage into the kitchen Boris could see nothing but
thick smoke, a line with washing on it, and the chimney of the
samovar through a crack of which golden sparks were dropping.
"And here is my cell," said the old man, stooping down and going
into a little room with a low-pitched ceiling, and an atmosphere
unbearably stifling from the proximity of the kitchen.
Here three women were sitting at the table regaling themselves.
Seeing the visitors, they exchanged glances and left off eating.
"Well, did you get it?" one of them, apparently the "virago"
herself, asked abruptly.
"Yes, yes," muttered the old man. "Well, Boris, pray sit down.
Everything is plain here, young man . . . we live in a simple
He bustled about in an aimless way. He felt ashamed before his
son, and at the same time apparently he wanted to keep up before
the women his dignity as cock of the walk, and as a forsaken,
"Yes, young man, we live simply with no nonsense," he went on
muttering. "We are simple people, young man. . . . We are not
like you, we don't want to keep up a show before people. No! . .
. Shall we have a drink of vodka?"
One of the women (she was ashamed to drink before a stranger)
heaved a sigh and said:
"Well, I'll have another drink on account of the mushrooms. . .
. They are such mushrooms, they make you drink even if you don't
want to. Ivan Gerasimitch, offer the young gentleman, perhaps he
will have a drink!"
The last word she pronounced in a mincing drawl.
"Have a drink, young man!" said the father, not looking at his
son. "We have no wine or liqueurs, my boy, we live in a plain
"He doesn't like our ways," sighed the "virago." "Never mind,
never mind, he'll have a drink."
Not to offend his father by refusing, Boris took a wineglass and
drank in silence. When they brought in the samovar, to satisfy
the old man, he drank two cups of disgusting tea in silence,
with a melancholy face. Without a word he listened to the virago
dropping hints about there being in this world cruel, heartless
children who abandon their parents.
"I know what you are thinking now!" said the old man, after
drinking more and passing into his habitual state of drunken
excitement. "You think I have let myself sink into the mire,
that I am to be pitied, but to my thinking, this simple life is
much more normal than your life, . . . I don't need anybody, and
. . . and I don't intend to eat humble pie. . . . I can't endure
a wretched boy's looking at me with compassion."
After tea he cleaned a herring and sprinkled it with onion, with
such feeling, that tears of emotion stood in his eyes. He began
talking again about the races and his winnings, about some
Panama hat for which he had paid sixteen roubles the day before.
He told lies with the same relish with which he ate herring and
drank. His son sat on in silence for an hour, and began to say
"I don't venture to keep you," the old man said, haughtily. "You
must excuse me, young man, for not living as you would like!"
He ruffled up his feathers, snorted with dignity, and winked at
"Good-bye, young man," he said, seeing his son into the entry.
In the entry, where it was dark, he suddenly pressed his face
against the young man's sleeve and gave a sob.
"I should like to have a look at Sonitchka," he whispered.
"Arrange it, Borenka, my angel. I'll shave, I'll put on your
suit . . . I'll put on a straight face . . . I'll hold my tongue
while she is there. Yes, yes, I will hold my tongue!"
He looked round timidly towards the door, through which the
women's voices were heard, checked his sobs, and said aloud:
"Good-bye, young man! Attendez."
summer villa: the Russian for a summer residence is "dacha"
kvass: a Russian beer made from rye or barley
delicatesse, consomm: daintiness, accomplished