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Chekhov's
Story: Three Years
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XIV It had become distasteful to Laptev to be long at home. His wife
was constantly away in the lodge declaring that she had to look
after the little girls, but he knew that she did not go to the
lodge to give them lessons but to cry in Kostya's room. The
ninth day came, then the twentieth, and then the fortieth, and
still he had to go to the cemetery to listen to the requiem, and
then to wear himself out for a whole day and night thinking of
nothing but that unhappy baby, and trying to comfort his wife
with all sorts of commonplace expressions. He went rarely to the
warehouse now, and spent most of his time in charitable work,
seizing upon every pretext requiring his attention, and he was
glad when he had for some trivial reason to be out for the whole
day. He had been intending of late to go abroad, to study
night-refuges, and that idea attracted him now.
It was an autumn day. Yulia had just gone to the lodge to cry,
while Laptev lay on a sofa in the study thinking where he could
go. Just at that moment Pyotr announced Polina Razsudin. Laptev
was delighted; he leapt up and went to meet the unexpected
visitor, who had been his closest friend, though he had almost
begun to forget her. She had not changed in the least since that
evening when he had seen her for the last time, and was just the
same as ever.
"Polina," he said, holding out both hands to her. "What ages! If
you only knew how glad I am to see you! Do come in!"
Polina greeted him, jerked him by the hand, and without taking
off her coat and hat, went into the study and sat down.
"I've come to you for one minute," she said. "I haven't time to
talk of any nonsense. Sit down and listen. Whether you are glad
to see me or not is absolutely nothing to me, for I don't care a
straw for the gracious attentions of you lords of creation. I've
only come to you because I've been to five other places already
to-day, and everywhere I was met with a refusal, and it's a
matter that can't be put off. Listen," she went on, looking into
his face. "Five students of my acquaintance, stupid,
unintelligent people, but certainly poor, have neglected to pay
their fees, and are being excluded from the university. Your
wealth makes it your duty to go straight to the university and
pay for them."
"With pleasure, Polina."
"Here are their names," she said, giving him a list. "Go this
minute; you'll have plenty of time to enjoy your domestic
happiness afterwards."
At that moment a rustle was heard through the door that led into
the drawing-room; probably the dog was scratching itself. Polina
turned crimson and jumped up.
"Your Dulcinea's eavesdropping," she said. "That's horrid!"
Laptev was offended at this insult to Yulia.
"She's not here; she's in the lodge," he said. "And don't speak
of her like that. Our child is dead, and she is in great
distress."
"You can console her," Polina scoffed, sitting down again;
"she'll have another dozen. You don't need much sense to bring
children into the world."
Laptev remembered that he had heard this, or something very like
it, many times in old days, and it brought back a whiff of the
romance of the past, of solitary freedom, of his bachelor life,
when he was young and thought he could do anything he chose,
when he had neither love for his wife nor memory of his baby.
"Let us go together," he said, stretching.
When they reached the university Polina waited at the gate,
while Laptev went into the office; he came back soon afterwards
and handed Polina five receipts.
"Where are you going now?" he asked.
"To Yartsev's."
"I'll come with you."
"But you'll prevent him from writing."
"No, I assure you I won't," he said, and looked at her
imploringly.
She had on a black hat trimmed with crape, as though she were in
mourning, and a short, shabby coat, the pockets of which stuck
out. Her nose looked longer than it used to be, and her face
looked bloodless in spite of the cold. Laptev liked walking with
her, doing what she told him, and listening to her grumbling. He
walked along thinking about her, what inward strength there must
be in this woman, since, though she was so ugly, so angular, so
restless, though she did not know how to dress, and always had
untidy hair, and was always somehow out of harmony, she was yet
so fascinating.
They went into Yartsev's flat by the back way through the
kitchen, where they were met by the cook, a clean little old
woman with grey curls; she was overcome with embarrassment, and
with a honeyed smile which made her little face look like a pie,
said:
"Please walk in."
Yartsev was not at home. Polina sat down to the piano, and
beginning upon a tedious, difficult exercise, told Laptev not to
hinder her. And without distracting her attention by
conversation, he sat on one side and began turning over the
pages of a "The Messenger of Europe." After practising for two
hours -- it was the task she set herself every day -- she ate
something in the kitchen and went out to her lessons. Laptev
read the continuation of a story, then sat for a long time
without reading and without being bored, glad to think that he
was too late for dinner at home.
"Ha, ha, ha!" came Yartsev's laugh, and he walked in with ruddy
cheeks, looking strong and healthy, wearing a new coat with
bright buttons. "Ha, ha, ha!"
The friends dined together. Then Laptev lay on the sofa while
Yartsev sat near and lighted a cigar. It got dark.
"I must be getting old," said Laptev. "Ever since my sister Nina
died, I've taken to constantly thinking of death."
They began talking of death, of the immortality of the soul, of
how nice it would be to rise again and fly off somewhere to
Mars, to be always idle and happy, and, above all, to think in a
new special way, not as on earth.
"One doesn't want to die," said Yartsev softly. "No sort of
philosophy can reconcile me to death, and I look on it simply as
annihilation. One wants to live."
"You love life, Gavrilitch?"
"Yes, I love it."
"Do you know, I can never understand myself about that. I'm
always in a gloomy mood or else indifferent. I'm timid, without
self-confidence; I have a cowardly conscience; I never can adapt
myself to life, or become its master. Some people talk nonsense
or cheat, and even so enjoy life, while I consciously do good,
and feel nothing but uneasiness or complete indifference. I
explain all that, Gavrilitch, by my being a slave, the grandson
of a serf. Before we plebeians fight our way into the true path,
many of our sort will perish on the way."
"That's all quite right, my dear fellow," said Yartsev, and he
sighed. "That only proves once again how rich and varied Russian
life is. Ah, how rich it is! Do you know, I feel more convinced
every day that we are on the eve of the greatest triumph, and I
should like to live to take part in it. Whether you like to
believe it or not, to my thinking a remarkable generation is
growing up. It gives me great enjoyment to teach the children,
especially the girls. They are wonderful children!"
Yartsev went to the piano and struck a chord.
"I'm a chemist, I think in chemical terms, and I shall die a
chemist," he went on. "But I am greedy, and I am afraid of dying
unsatisfied; and chemistry is not enough for me, and I seize
upon Russian history, history of art, the science of teaching
music. . . . Your wife asked me in the summer to write an
historical play, and now I'm longing to write and write. I feel
as though I could sit for three days and three nights without
moving, writing all the time. I am worn out with ideas -- my
brain's crowded with them, and I feel as though there were a
pulse throbbing in my head. I don't in the least want to become
anything special, to create something great. I simply want to
live, to dream, to hope, to be in the midst of everything. . . .
Life is short, my dear fellow, and one must make the most of
everything."
After this friendly talk, which was not over till midnight,
Laptev took to coming to see Yartsev almost every day. He felt
drawn to him. As a rule he came towards evening, lay down on the
sofa, and waited patiently for Yartsev to come in, without
feeling in the least bored. When Yartsev came back from his
work, he had dinner, and sat down to work; but Laptev would ask
him a questions a conversation would spring up, and there was no
more thought of work and at midnight the friends parted very
well pleased with one another.
But this did not last long. Arriving one day at Yartsev's,
Laptev found no one there but Polina, who was sitting at the
piano practising her exercises. She looked at him with a cold,
almost hostile expression, and asked without shaking hands:
"Tell me, please: how much longer is this going on?"
"This? What?" asked Laptev, not understanding.
"You come here every day and hinder Yartsev from working.
Yartsev is not a tradesman; he is a scientific man, and every
moment of his life is precious. You ought to understand and to
have some little delicacy!"
"If you think that I hinder him," said Laptev, mildly,
disconcerted, "I will give up my visits."
"Quite right, too. You had better go, or he may be home in a
minute and find you here."
The tone in which this was said, and the indifference in
Polina's eyes, completely disconcerted him. She had absolutely
no sort of feeling for him now, except the desire that he should
go as soon as possible -- and what a contrast it was to her old
love for him! He went out without shaking hands with her, and he
fancied she would call out to him, bring him back, but he heard
the scales again, and as he slowly went down the stairs he
realised that he had become a stranger to her now.
Three days later Yartsev came to spend the evening with him.
"I have news," he said, laughing. "Polina Nikolaevna has moved
into my rooms altogether." He was a little confused, and went on
in a low voice: "Well, we are not in love with each other, of
course, but I suppose that . . . that doesn't matter. I am glad
I can give her a refuge and peace and quiet, and make it
possible for her not to work if she's ill. She fancies that her
coming to live with me will make things more orderly, and that
under her influence I shall become a great scientist. That's
what she fancies. And let her fancy it. In the South they have a
saying: 'Fancy makes the fool a rich man.' Ha, ha, ha!"
Laptev said nothing. Yartsev walked up and down the study,
looking at the pictures he had seen so many times before, and
said with a sigh:
"Yes, my dear fellow, I am three years older than you are, and
it's too late for me to think of real love, and in reality a
woman like Polina Nikolaevna is a godsend to me, and, of course,
I shall get on capitally with her till we're both old people;
but, goodness knows why, one still regrets something, one still
longs for something, and I still feel as though I am lying in
the Vale of Daghestan and dreaming of a ball. In short, man's
never satisfied with what he has."
He went into the drawing-room and began singing as though
nothing had happened, and Laptev sat in his study with his eyes
shut, and tried to understand why Polina had gone to live with
Yartsev. And then he felt sad that there were no lasting,
permanent attachments. And he felt vexed that Polina Nikolaevna
had gone to live with Yartsev, and vexed with himself that his
feeling for his wife was not what it had been.
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