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My Life -
Chekhov
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XIX XX
XIX At last a letter came from Masha.
"Dear, good M. A." (she wrote), "our kind, gentle 'angel' as the
old painter calls you, farewell; I am going with my father to
America for the exhibition. In a few days I shall see the ocean
-- so far from Dubetchnya, it's dreadful to think! It's far and
unfathomable as the sky, and I long to be there in freedom. I am
triumphant, I am mad, and you see how incoherent my letter is.
Dear, good one, give me my freedom, make haste to break the
thread, which still holds, binding you and me together. My
meeting and knowing you was a ray from heaven that lighted up my
existence; but my becoming your wife was a mistake, you
understand that, and I am oppressed now by the consciousness of
the mistake, and I beseech you, on my knees, my generous friend,
quickly, quickly, before I start for the ocean, telegraph that
you consent to correct our common mistake, to remove the
solitary stone from my wings, and my father, who will undertake
all the arrangements, promised me not to burden you too much
with formalities. And so I am free to fly whither I will? Yes?
"Be happy, and God bless you; forgive me, a sinner.
"I am well, I am wasting money, doing all sorts of silly things,
and I thank God every minute that such a bad woman as I has no
children. I sing and have success, but it's not an infatuation;
no, it's my haven, my cell to which I go for peace. King David
had a ring with an inscription on it: 'All things pass.' When
one is sad those words make one cheerful, and when one is
cheerful it makes one sad. I have got myself a ring like that
with Hebrew letters on it, and this talisman keeps me from
infatuations. All things pass, life will pass, one wants
nothing. Or at least one wants nothing but the sense of freedom,
for when anyone is free, he wants nothing, nothing, nothing.
Break the thread. A warm hug to you and your sister. Forgive and
forget your M."
My sister used to lie down in one room, and Radish, who had been
ill again and was now better, in another. Just at the moment
when I received this letter my sister went softly into the
painter's room, sat down beside him and began reading aloud. She
read to him every day, Ostrovsky or Gogol, and he listened,
staring at one point, not laughing, but shaking his head and
muttering to himself from time to time:
"Anything may happen! Anything may happen!"
If anything ugly or unseemly were depicted in the play he would
say as though vindictively, thrusting his finger into the book:
"There it is, lying! That's what it does, lying does."
The plays fascinated him, both from their subjects and their
moral, and from their skilful, complex construction, and he
marvelled at "him," never calling the author by his name. How
neatly he has put it all together.
This time my sister read softly only one page, and could read no
more: her voice would not last out. Radish took her hand and,
moving his parched lips, said, hardly audibly, in a husky voice:
"The soul of a righteous man is white and smooth as chalk, but
the soul of a sinful man is like pumice stone. The soul of a
righteous man is like clear oil, but the soul of a sinful man is
gas tar. We must labour, we must sorrow, we must suffer
sickness," he went on, "and he who does not labour and sorrow
will not gain the Kingdom of Heaven. Woe, woe to them that are
well fed, woe to the mighty, woe to the rich, woe to the
moneylenders! Not for them is the Kingdom of Heaven. Lice eat
grass, rust eats iron. . ."
"And lying the soul," my sister added laughing. I read the
letter through once more. At that moment there walked into the
kitchen a soldier who had been bringing us twice a week parcels
of tea, French bread and game, which smelt of scent, from some
unknown giver. I had no work. I had had to sit at home idle for
whole days together, and probably whoever sent us the French
bread knew that we were in want.
I heard my sister talking to the soldier and laughing gaily.
Then, lying down, she ate some French bread and said to me:
"When you wouldn't go into the service, but became a house
painter, Anyuta Blagovo and I knew from the beginning that you
were right, but we were frightened to say so aloud. Tell me what
force is it that hinders us from saying what one thinks? Take
Anyuta Blagovo now, for instance. She loves you, she adores you,
she knows you are right, she loves me too, like a sister, and
knows that I am right, and I daresay in her soul envies me, but
some force prevents her from coming to see us, she shuns us, she
is afraid."
My sister crossed her arms over her breast, and said
passionately:
"How she loves you, if only you knew! She has confessed her love
to no one but me, and then very secretly in the dark. She led me
into a dark avenue in the garden, and began whispering how
precious you were to her. You will see, she'll never marry,
because she loves you. Are you sorry for her?"
"Yes."
"It's she who has sent the bread. She is absurd really, what is
the use of being so secret? I used to be absurd and foolish, but
now I have got away from that and am afraid of nobody. I think
and say aloud what I like, and am happy. When I lived at home I
hadn't a conception of happiness, and now I wouldn't change with
a queen."
Dr. Blagovo arrived. He had taken his doctor's degree, and was
now staying in our town with his father; he was taking a rest,
and said that he would soon go back to Petersburg again. He
wanted to study anti-toxins against typhus, and, I believe,
cholera; he wanted to go abroad to perfect his training, and
then to be appointed a professor. He had already left the army
service, and wore a roomy serge reefer jacket, very full
trousers, and magnificent neckties. My sister was in ecstasies
over his scarfpin, his studs, and the red silk handkerchief
which he wore, I suppose from foppishness, sticking out of the
breast pocket of his jacket. One day, having nothing to do, she
and I counted up all the suits we remembered him wearing, and
came to the conclusion that he had at least ten. It was clear
that he still loved my sister as before, but he never once even
in jest spoke of taking her with him to Petersburg or abroad,
and I could not picture to myself clearly what would become of
her if she remained alive and what would become of her child.
She did nothing but dream endlessly, and never thought seriously
of the future; she said he might go where he liked, and might
abandon her even, so long as he was happy himself; that what had
been was enough for her.
As a rule he used to sound her very carefully on his arrival,
and used to insist on her taking milk and drops in his presence.
It was the same on this occasion. He sounded her and made her
drink a glass of milk, and there was a smell of creosote in our
room afterwards.
"That's a good girl," he said, taking the glass from her. "You
mustn't talk too much now; you've taken to chattering like a
magpie of late. Please hold your tongue."
She laughed. Then he came into Radish's room where I was sitting
and affectionately slapped me on the shoulder.
"Well, how goes it, old man?" he said, bending down to the
invalid.
"Your honour," said Radish, moving his lips slowly, "your
honour, I venture to submit. . . . We all walk in the fear of
God, we all have to die. . . . Permit me to tell you the truth.
. . . Your honour, the Kingdom of Heaven will not be for you!"
"There's no help for it," the doctor said jestingly; "there must
be somebody in hell, you know."
And all at once something happened with my consciousness; as
though I were in a dream, as though I were standing on a winter
night in the slaughterhouse yard, and Prokofy beside me,
smelling of pepper cordial; I made an effort to control myself,
and rubbed my eyes, and at once it seemed to me that I was going
along the road to the interview with the Governor. Nothing of
the sort had happened to me before, or has happened to me since,
and these strange memories that were like dreams, I ascribed to
overexhaustion of my nerves. I lived through the scene at the
slaughterhouse, and the interview with the Governor, and at the
same time was dimly aware that it was not real.
When I came to myself I saw that I was no longer in the house,
but in the street, and was standing with the doctor near a
lamp-post.
"It's sad, it's sad," he was saying, and tears were trickling
down his cheeks. "She is in good spirits, she's always laughing
and hopeful, but her position's hopeless, dear boy. Your Radish
hates me, and is always trying to make me feel that I have
treated her badly. He is right from his standpoint, but I have
my point of view too; and I shall never regret all that has
happened. One must love; we ought all to love -- oughtn't we?
There would be no life without love; anyone who fears and avoids
love is not free."
Little by little he passed to other subjects, began talking of
science, of his dissertation which had been liked in Petersburg.
He was carried away by his subject, and no longer thought of my
sister, nor of his grief, nor of me. Life was of absorbing
interest to him. She has America and her ring with the
inscription on it, I thought, while this fellow has his doctor's
degree and a professor's chair to look forward to, and only my
sister and I are left with the old things.
When I said good-bye to him, I went up to the lamp-post and read
the letter once more. And I remembered, I remembered vividly how
that spring morning she had come to me at the mill, lain down
and covered herself with her jacket -- she wanted to be like a
simple peasant woman. And how, another time -- it was in the
morning also -- we drew the net out of the water, and heavy
drops of rain fell upon us from the riverside willows, and we
laughed.
It was dark in our house in Great Dvoryansky Street. I got over
the fence and, as I used to do in the old days, went by the back
way to the kitchen to borrow a lantern. There was no one in the
kitchen. The samovar hissed near the stove, waiting for my
father. "Who pours out my father's tea now?" I thought. Taking
the lantern I went out to the shed, built myself up a bed of old
newspapers and lay down. The hooks on the walls looked
forbidding, as they used to of old, and their shadows flickered.
It was cold. I felt that my sister would come in in a minute,
and bring me supper, but at once I remembered that she was ill
and was lying at Radish's, and it seemed to me strange that I
should have climbed over the fence and be lying here in this
unheated shed. My mind was in a maze, and I saw all sorts of
absurd things.
There was a ring. A ring familiar from childhood: first the wire
rustled against the wall, then a short plaintive ring in the
kitchen. It was my father come back from the club. I got up and
went into the kitchen. Axinya the cook clasped her hands on
seeing me, and for some reason burst into tears.
"My own!" she said softly. "My precious! O Lord!"
And she began crumpling up her apron in her agitation. In the
window there were standing jars of berries in vodka. I poured
myself out a teacupful and greedily drank it off, for I was
intensely thirsty. Axinya had quite recently scrubbed the table
and benches, and there was that smell in the kitchen which is
found in bright, snug kitchens kept by tidy cooks. And that
smell and the chirp of the cricket used to lure us as children
into the kitchen, and put us in the mood for hearing fairy tales
and playing at "Kings" . . .
"Where's Kleopatra?" Axinya asked softly, in a fluster, holding
her breath; "and where is your cap, my dear? Your wife, you say,
has gone to Petersburg?"
She had been our servant in our mother's time, and used once to
give Kleopatra and me our baths, and to her we were still
children who had to be talked to for their good. For a quarter
of an hour or so she laid before me all the reflections which
she had with the sagacity of an old servant been accumulating in
the stillness of that kitchen, all the time since we had seen
each other. She said that the doctor could be forced to marry
Kleopatra; he only needed to be thoroughly frightened; and that
if an appeal were promptly written the bishop would annul the
first marriage; that it would be a good thing for me to sell
Dubetchnya without my wife's knowledge, and put the money in the
bank in my own name; that if my sister and I were to bow down at
my father's feet and ask him properly, he might perhaps forgive
us; that we ought to have a service sung to the Queen of Heaven.
. . .
"Come, go along, my dear, and speak to him," she said, when she
heard my father's cough. "Go along, speak to him; bow down, your
head won't drop off."
I went in. My father was sitting at the table sketching a plan
of a summer villa, with Gothic windows, and with a fat turret
like a fireman's watch tower -- something peculiarly stiff and
tasteless. Going into the study I stood still where I could see
this drawing. I did not know why I had gone in to my father, but
I remember that when I saw his lean face, his red neck, and his
shadow on the wall, I wanted to throw myself on his neck, and as
Axinya had told me, bow down at his feet; but the sight of the
summer villa with the Gothic windows, and the fat turret,
restrained me.
"Good evening," I said.
He glanced at me, and at once dropped his eyes on his drawing.
"What do you want?" he asked, after waiting a little.
"I have come to tell you my sister's very ill. She can't live
very long," I added in a hollow voice.
"Well," sighed my father, taking off his spectacles, and laying
them on the table. "What thou sowest that shalt thou reap. What
thou sowest," he repeated, getting up from the table, "that
shalt thou reap. I ask you to remember how you came to me two
years ago, and on this very spot I begged you, I besought you to
give up your errors; I reminded you of your duty, of your
honour, of what you owed to your forefathers whose traditions we
ought to preserve as sacred. Did you obey me? You scorned my
counsels, and obstinately persisted in clinging to your false
ideals; worse still you drew your sister into the path of error
with you, and led her to lose her moral principles and sense of
shame. Now you are both in a bad way. Well, as thou sowest, so
shalt thou reap!"
As he said this he walked up and down the room. He probably
imagined that I had come to him to confess my wrong doings, and
he probably expected that I should begin begging him to forgive
my sister and me. I was cold, I was shivering as though I were
in a fever, and spoke with difficulty in a husky voice.
"And I beg you, too, to remember," I said, "on this very spot I
besought you to understand me, to reflect, to decide with me how
and for what we should live, and in answer you began talking
about our forefathers, about my grandfather who wrote poems. One
tells you now that your only daughter is hopelessly ill, and you
go on again about your forefathers, your traditions. . . . And
such frivolity in your old age, when death is close at hand, and
you haven't more than five or ten years left!"
"What have you come here for?" my father asked sternly,
evidently offended at my reproaching him for his frivolity.
"I don't know. I love you, I am unutterably sorry that we are so
far apart -- so you see I have come. I love you still, but my
sister has broken with you completely. She does not forgive you,
and will never forgive you now. Your very name arouses her
aversion for the past, for life."
"And who is to blame for it?" cried my father. "It's your fault,
you scoundrel!"
"Well, suppose it is my fault?" I said. "I admit I have been to
blame in many things, but why is it that this life of yours,
which you think binding upon us, too -- why is it so dreary, so
barren? How is it that in not one of these houses you have been
building for the last thirty years has there been anyone from
whom I might have learnt how to live, so as not to be to blame?
There is not one honest man in the whole town! These houses of
yours are nests of damnation, where mothers and daughters are
made away with, where children are tortured. . . . My poor
mother!" I went on in despair. "My poor sister! One has to
stupefy oneself with vodka, with cards, with scandal; one must
become a scoundrel, a hypocrite, or go on drawing plans for
years and years, so as not to notice all the horrors that lie
hidden in these houses. Our town has existed for hundreds of
years, and all that time it has not produced one man of service
to our country -- not one. You have stifled in the germ
everything in the least living and bright. It's a town of
shopkeepers, publicans, counting-house clerks, canting
hypocrites; it's a useless, unnecessary town, which not one soul
would regret if it suddenly sank through the earth."
"I don't want to listen to you, you scoundrel!" said my father,
and he took up his ruler from the table. "You are drunk. Don't
dare come and see your father in such a state! I tell you for
the last time, and you can repeat it to your depraved sister,
that you'll get nothing from me, either of you. I have torn my
disobedient children out of my heart, and if they suffer for
their disobedience and obstinacy I do not pity them. You can go
whence you came. It has pleased God to chastise me with you, but
I will bear the trial with resignation, and, like Job, I will
find consolation in my sufferings and in unremitting labour. You
must not cross my threshold till you have mended your ways. I am
a just man, all I tell you is for your benefit, and if you
desire your own good you ought to remember all your life what I
say and have said to you. . . ."
I waved my hand in despair and went away. I don't remember what
happened afterwards, that night and next day.
I am told that I walked about the streets bareheaded,
staggering, and singing aloud, while a crowd of boys ran after
me, shouting:
"Better-than-nothing!"
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