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A. P. Chekhov
- Three Years
I
II
III IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
II The next morning was a cheerful one; it was a holiday. At ten
o'clock Nina Fyodorovna, wearing a brown dress and with her hair
neatly arranged, was led into the drawing-room, supported on
each side. There she walked about a little and stood by the open
window, and her smile was broad and na?e, and, looking at her,
one recalled a local artist, a great drunkard, who wanted her to
sit to him for a picture of the Russian carnival. And all of
them -- the children, the servants, her brother, Alexey
Fyodorovitch, and she herself -- were suddenly convinced, that
she was certainly going to get well. With shrieks of laughter
the children ran after their uncle, chasing him and catching
him, and filling the house with noise.
People called to ask how she was, brought her holy bread, told
her that in almost all the churches they were offering up
prayers for her that day. She had been conspicuous for her
benevolence in the town, and was liked. She was very ready with
her charity, like her brother Alexey, who gave away his money
freely, without considering whether it was necessary to give it
or not. Nina Fyodorovna used to pay the school fees for poor
children; used to give away tea, sugar, and jam to old women;
used to provide trousseaux for poor brides; and if she picked up
a newspaper, she always looked first of all to see if there were
any appeals for charity or a paragraph about somebody's being in
a destitute condition.
She was holding now in her hand a bundle of notes, by means of
which various poor people, her prot??, had procured goods from
a grocer's shop.
They had been sent her the evening before by the shopkeeper with
a request for the payment of the total -- eighty-two roubles.
"My goodness, what a lot they've had! They've no conscience!"
she said, deciphering with difficulty her ugly handwriting.
"It's no joke! Eighty-two roubles! I declare I won't pay it."
"I'll pay it to-day," said Laptev.
"Why should you? Why should you?" cried Nina Fyodorovna in
agitation. "It's quite enough for me to take two hundred and
fifty every month from you and our brother. God bless you!" she
added, speaking softly, so as not to be overheard by the
servants.
"Well, but I spend two thousand five hundred a month," he said.
"I tell you again, dear: you have just as much right to spend it
as I or Fyodor. Do understand that, once for all. There are
three of us, and of every three kopecks of our father's money,
one belongs to you."
But Nina Fyodorovna did not understand, and her expression
looked as though she were mentally solving some very difficult
problem. And this lack of comprehension in pecuniary matters,
always made Laptev feel uneasy and troubled. He suspected that
she had private debts in addition which worried her and of which
she scrupled to tell him.
Then came the sound of footsteps and heavy breathing; it was the
doctor coming up the stairs, dishevelled and unkempt as usual.
"Ru-ru-ru," he was humming. "Ru-ru."
To avoid meeting him, Laptev went into the dining-room, and then
went downstairs to his own room. It was clear to him that to get
on with the doctor and to drop in at his house without
formalities was impossible; and to meet the "old brute," as
Panaurov called him, was distasteful. That was why he so rarely
saw Yulia. He reflected now that the father was not at home,
that if he were to take Yulia Sergeyevna her parasol, he would
be sure to find her at home alone, and his heart ached with joy.
Haste, haste!
He took the parasol and, violently agitated, flew on the wings
of love. It was hot in the street. In the big courtyard of the
doctor's house, overgrown with coarse grass and nettles, some
twenty urchins were playing ball. These were all the children of
working-class families who tenanted the three
disreputable-looking lodges, which the doctor was always meaning
to have done up, though he put it off from year to year. The
yard resounded with ringing, healthy voices. At some distance on
one side, Yulia Sergeyevna was standing at her porch, her hands
folded, watching the game.
"Good-morning!" Laptev called to her.
She looked round. Usually he saw her indifferent, cold, or tired
as she had been the evening before. Now her face looked full of
life and frolic, like the faces of the boys who were playing
ball.
"Look, they never play so merrily in Moscow," she said, going to
meet him. "There are no such big yards there, though; they've no
place to run there. Papa has only just gone to you," she added,
looking round at the children.
"I know; but I've not come to see him, but to see you," said
Laptev, admiring her youthfulness, which he had not noticed till
then, and seemed only that day to have discovered in her; it
seemed to him as though he were seeing her slender white neck
with the gold chain for the first time. "I've come to see you .
. ." he repeated. "My sister has sent you your parasol; you
forgot it yesterday."
She put out her hand to take the parasol, but he pressed it to
his bosom and spoke passionately, without restraint, yielding
again to the sweet ecstasy he had felt the night before, sitting
under the parasol.
"I entreat you, give it me. I shall keep it in memory of you . .
. of our acquaintance. It's so wonderful!"
"Take it," she said, and blushed; "but there's nothing wonderful
about it."
He looked at her in ecstasy, in silence, not knowing what to
say.
"Why am I keeping you here in the heat?" she said after a brief
pause, laughing. "Let us go indoors."
"I am not disturbing you?"
They went into the hall. Yulia Sergeyevna ran upstairs, her
white dress with blue flowers on it rustling as she went.
"I can't be disturbed," she answered, stopping on the landing.
"I never do anything. Every day is a holiday for me, from
morning till night."
"What you say is inconceivable to me," he said, going up to her.
"I grew up in a world in which every one without exception, men
and women alike, worked hard every day."
"But if one has nothing to do?" she asked. "One has to arrange
one's life under such conditions, that work is inevitable. There
can be no clean and happy life without work."
Again he pressed the parasol to his bosom, and to his own
surprise spoke softly, in a voice unlike his own:
"If you would consent to be my wife I would give everything -- I
would give everything. There's no price I would not pay, no
sacrifice I would not make."
She started and looked at him with wonder and alarm.
"What are you saying!" she brought out, turning pale. "It's
impossible, I assure you. Forgive me."
Then with the same rustle of her skirts she went up higher, and
vanished through the doorway.
Laptev grasped what this meant, and his mood was transformed,
completely, abruptly, as though a light in his soul had suddenly
been extinguished. Filled with the shame of a man humiliated, of
a man who is disdained, who is not liked, who is distasteful,
perhaps disgusting, who is shunned, he walked out of the house.
"I would give everything," he thought, mimicking himself as he
went home through the heat and recalled the details of his
declaration. "I would give everything -- like a regular
tradesman. As though she wanted your everything!"
All he had just said seemed to him repulsively stupid. Why had
he lied, saying that he had grown up in a world where every one
worked, without exception? Why had he talked to her in a
lecturing tone about a clean and happy life? It was not clever,
not interesting; it was false -- false in the Moscow style. But
by degrees there followed that mood of indifference into which
criminals sink after a severe sentence. He began thinking that,
thank God! everything was at an end and that the terrible
uncertainty was over; that now there was no need to spend whole
days in anticipation, in pining, in thinking always of the same
thing. Now everything was clear; he must give up all hope of
personal happiness, live without desires, without hopes, without
dreams, or expectations, and to escape that dreary sadness which
he was so sick of trying to soothe, he could busy himself with
other people's affairs, other people's happiness, and old age
would come on imperceptibly, and life would reach its end -- and
nothing more was wanted. He did not care, he wished for nothing,
and could reason about it coolly, but there was a sort of
heaviness in his face especially under his eyes, his forehead
felt drawn tight like elastic -- and tears were almost starting
into his eyes. Feeling weak all over, he lay down on his bed,
and in five minutes was sound asleep.
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