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My Life -
Chekhov
I
II
III IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII XVIII
XIX XX
XVI In the evening she got ready to go to the town. Of late she had
taken to going often to the town and staying the night there. In
her absence I could not work, my hands felt weak and limp; our
huge courtyard seemed a dreary, repulsive, empty hole. The
garden was full of angry noises, and without her the house, the
trees, the horses were no longer "ours."
I did not go out of the house, but went on sitting at her table
beside her bookshelf with the books on land work, those old
favourites no longer wanted and looking at me now so
shamefacedly. For whole hours together, while it struck seven,
eight, nine, while the autumn night, black as soot, came on
outside, I kept examining her old glove, or the pen with which
she always wrote, or her little scissors. I did nothing, and
realized clearly that all I had done before, ploughing, mowing,
chopping, had only been because she wished it. And if she had
sent me to clean a deep well, where I had to stand up to my
waist in deep water, I should have crawled into the well without
considering whether it was necessary or not. And now when she
was not near, Dubetchnya, with its ruins, its untidiness, its
banging shutters, with its thieves by day and by night, seemed
to me a chaos in which any work would be useless. Besides, what
had I to work for here, why anxiety and thought about the
future, if I felt that the earth was giving way under my feet,
that I had played my part in Dubetchnya, and that the fate of
the books on farming was awaiting me too? Oh, what misery it was
at night, in hours of solitude, when I was listening every
minute in alarm, as though I were expecting someone to shout
that it was time for me to go away! I did not grieve for
Dubetchnya. I grieved for my love which, too, was threatened
with its autumn. What an immense happiness it is to love and be
loved, and how awful to feel that one is slipping down from that
high pinnacle!
Masha returned from the town towards the evening of the next
day. She was displeased with something, but she concealed it,
and only said, why was it all the window frames had been put in
for the winter it was enough to suffocate one. I took out two
frames. We were not hungry, but we sat down to supper.
"Go and wash your hands," said my wife; "you smell of putty."
She had brought some new illustrated papers from the town, and
we looked at them together after supper. There were supplements
with fashion plates and patterns. Masha looked through them
casually, and was putting them aside to examine them properly
later on; but one dress, with a flat skirt as full as a bell and
large sleeves, interested her, and she looked at it for a minute
gravely and attentively.
"That's not bad," she said.
"Yes, that dress would suit you beautifully," I said,
"beautifully."
And looking with emotion at the dress, admiring that patch of
grey simply because she liked it, I went on tenderly:
"A charming, exquisite dress! Splendid, glorious, Masha! My
precious Masha!"
And tears dropped on the fashion plate.
"Splendid Masha . . ." I muttered; "sweet, precious Masha. . .
."
She went to bed, while I sat another hour looking at the
illustrations.
"It's a pity you took out the window frames," she said from the
bedroom, "I am afraid it may be cold. Oh, dear, what a draught
there is!"
I read something out of the column of odds and ends, a receipt
for making cheap ink, and an account of the biggest diamond in
the world. I came again upon the fashion plate of the dress she
liked, and I imagined her at a ball, with a fan, bare shoulders,
brilliant, splendid, with a full understanding of painting,
music, literature, and how small and how brief my part seemed!
Our meeting, our marriage, had been only one of the episodes of
which there would be many more in the life of this vital, richly
gifted woman. All the best in the world, as I have said already,
was at her service, and she received it absolutely for nothing,
and even ideas and the intellectual movement in vogue served
simply for her recreation, giving variety to her life, and I was
only the sledge-driver who drove her from one entertainment to
another. Now she did not need me. She would take flight, and I
should be alone.
And as though in response to my thought, there came a despairing
scream from the garden.
"He-e-elp!"
It was a shrill, womanish voice, and as though to mimic it the
wind whistled in the chimney on the same shrill note. Half a
minute passed, and again through the noise of the wind, but
coming, it seemed, from the other end of the yard:
"He-e-elp!"
"Misail, do you hear?" my wife asked me softly. "Do you hear?"
She came out from the bedroom in her nightgown, with her hair
down, and listened, looking at the dark window.
"Someone is being murdered," she said. "That is the last straw."
I took my gun and went out. It was very dark outside, the wind
was high, and it was difficult to stand. I went to the gate and
listened, the trees roared, the wind whistled and, probably at
the feeble-minded peasant's, a dog howled lazily. Outside the
gates the darkness was absolute, not a light on the
railway-line. And near the lodge, which a year before had been
the office, suddenly sounded a smothered scream:
"He-e-elp!"
"Who's there?" I called.
There were two people struggling. One was thrusting the other
out, while the other was resisting, and both were breathing
heavily.
"Leave go," said one, and I recognized Ivan Tcheprakov; it was
he who was shrieking in a shrill, womanish voice: "Let go, you
damned brute, or I'll bite your hand off."
The other I recognized as Moisey. I separated them, and as I did
so I could not resist hitting Moisey two blows in the face. He
fell down, then got up again, and I hit him once more.
"He tried to kill me," he muttered. "He was trying to get at his
mamma's chest. . . . I want to lock him up in the lodge for
security."
Tcheprakov was drunk and did not recognize me; he kept drawing
deep breaths, as though he were just going to shout "help"
again.
I left them and went back to the house; my wife was lying on her
bed; she had dressed. I told her what had happened in the yard,
and did not conceal the fact that I had hit Moisey.
"It's terrible to live in the country," she said.
"And what a long night it is. Oh dear, if only it were over!"
"He-e-elp!" we heard again, a little later.
"I'll go and stop them," I said.
"No, let them bite each other's throats," she said with an
expression of disgust.
She was looking up at the ceiling, listening, while I sat beside
her, not daring to speak to her, feeling as though I were to
blame for their shouting "help" in the yard and for the night's
seeming so long.
We were silent, and I waited impatiently for a gleam of light at
the window, and Masha looked all the time as though she had
awakened from a trance and now was marvelling how she, so
clever, and well-educated, so elegant, had come into this
pitiful, provincial, empty hole among a crew of petty,
insignificant people, and how she could have so far forgotten
herself as ever to be attracted by one of these people, and for
more than six months to have been his wife. It seemed to me that
at that moment it did not matter to her whether it was I, or
Moisey, or Tcheprakov; everything for her was merged in that
savage drunken "help" -- I and our marriage, and our work
together, and the mud and slush of autumn, and when she sighed
or moved into a more comfortable position I read in her face:
"Oh, that morning would come quickly!"
In the morning she went away. I spent another three days at
Dubetchnya expecting her, then I packed all our things in one
room, locked it, and walked to the town. It was already evening
when I rang at the engineer's, and the street lamps were burning
in Great Dvoryansky Street. Pavel told me there was no one at
home; Viktor Ivanitch had gone to Petersburg, and Mariya
Viktorovna was probably at the rehearsal at the Azhogins'. I
remember with what emotion I went on to the Azhogins', how my
heart throbbed and fluttered as I mounted the stairs, and stood
waiting a long while on the landing at the top, not daring to
enter that temple of the muses! In the big room there were
lighted candles everywhere, on a little table, on the piano, and
on the stage, everywhere in threes; and the first performance
was fixed for the thirteenth, and now the first rehearsal was on
a Monday, an unlucky day. All part of the war against
superstition! All the devotees of the scenic art were gathered
together; the eldest, the middle, and the youngest sisters were
walking about the stage, reading their parts in exercise books.
Apart from all the rest stood Radish, motionless, with the side
of his head pressed to the wall as he gazed with adoration at
the stage, waiting for the rehearsal to begin. Everything as it
used to be.
I was making my way to my hostess; I had to pay my respects to
her, but suddenly everyone said "Hush!" and waved me to step
quietly. There was a silence. The lid of the piano was raised; a
lady sat down at it screwing up her short-sighted eyes at the
music, and my Masha walked up to the piano, in a low-necked
dress, looking beautiful, but with a special, new sort of beauty
not in the least like the Masha who used to come and meet me in
the spring at the mill. She sang: "Why do I love the radiant
night?"
It was the first time during our whole acquaintance that I had
heard her sing. She had a fine, mellow, powerful voice, and
while she sang I felt as though I were eating a ripe, sweet,
fragrant melon. She ended, the audience applauded, and she
smiled, very much pleased, making play with her eyes, turning
over the music, smoothing her skirts, like a bird that has at
last broken out of its cage and preens its wings in freedom. Her
hair was arranged over her ears, and she had an unpleasant,
defiant expression in her face, as though she wanted to throw
down a challenge to us all, or to shout to us as she did to her
horses: "Hey, there, my beauties!"
And she must at that moment have been very much like her
grandfather the sledge-driver.
"You here too?" she said, giving me her hand. "Did you hear me
sing? Well, what did you think of it?" and without waiting for
my answer she went on: "It's a very good thing you are here. I
am going to-night to Petersburg for a short time. You'll let me
go, won't you?"
At midnight I went with her to the station. She embraced me
affectionately, probably feeling grateful to me for not asking
unnecessary questions, and she promised to write to me, and I
held her hands a long time, and kissed them, hardly able to
restrain my tears and not uttering a word.
And when she had gone I stood watching the retreating lights,
caressing her in imagination and softly murmuring:
"My darling Masha, glorious Masha. . . ."
I spent the night at Karpovna's, and next morning I was at work
with Radish, re-covering the furniture of a rich merchant who
was marrying his daughter to a doctor.
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