A.P. Chekhov - The Husband
IN the course of the maneuvres the N---- cavalry regiment halted
for a night at the district town of K----. Such an event as the
visit of officers always has the most exciting and inspiring
effect on the inhabitants of provincial towns. The shopkeepers
dream of getting rid of the rusty sausages and "best brand"
sardines that have been lying for ten years on their shelves;
the inns and restaurants keep open all night; the Military
Commandant, his secretary, and the local garrison put on their
best uniforms; the police flit to and fro like mad, while the
effect on the ladies is beyond all description.
The ladies of K----, hearing the regiment approaching, forsook
their pans of boiling jam and ran into the street. Forgetting
their morning deshabille and general untidiness, they rushed
breathless with excitement to meet the regiment, and listened
greedily to the band playing the march. Looking at their pale,
ecstatic faces, one might have thought those strains came from
some heavenly choir rather than from a military brass band.
"The regiment!" they cried joyfully. "The regiment is coming!"
What could this unknown regiment that came by chance to-day and
would depart at dawn to-morrow mean to them?
Afterwards, when the officers were standing in the middle of the
square, and, with their hands behind them, discussing the
question of billets, all the ladies were gathered together at
the examining magistrate's and vying with one another in their
criticisms of the regiment. They already knew, goodness knows
how, that the colonel was married, but not living with his wife;
that the senior officer's wife had a baby born dead every year;
that the adjutant was hopelessly in love with some countess, and
had even once attempted suicide. They knew everything. When a
pock-marked soldier in a red shirt darted past the windows, they
knew for certain that it was Lieutenant Rymzov's orderly running
about the town, trying to get some English bitter ale on tick
for his master. They had only caught a passing glimpse of the
officers' backs, but had already decided that there was not one
handsome or interesting man among them. . . . Having talked to
their hearts' content, they sent for the Military Commandant and
the committee of the club, and instructed them at all costs to
make arrangements for a dance.
Their wishes were carried out. At nine o'clock in the evening
the military band was playing in the street before the club,
while in the club itself the officers were dancing with the
ladies of K----. The ladies felt as though they were on wings.
Intoxicated by the dancing, the music, and the clank of spurs,
they threw themselves heart and soul into making the
acquaintance of their new partners, and quite forgot their old
civilian friends. Their fathers and husbands, forced temporarily
into the background, crowded round the meagre refreshment table
in the entrance hall. All these government cashiers,
secretaries, clerks, and superintendents -- stale,
sickly-looking, clumsy figures -- were perfectly well aware of
their inferiority. They did not even enter the ball-room, but
contented themselves with watching their wives and daughters in
the distance dancing with the accomplished and graceful
Among the husbands was Shalikov, the tax-collector -- a narrow,
spiteful soul, given to drink, with a big, closely cropped head,
and thick, protruding lips. He had had a university education;
there had been a time when he used to read progressive
literature and sing students' songs, but now, as he said of
himself, he was a tax-collector and nothing more.
He stood leaning against the doorpost, his eyes fixed on his
wife, Anna Pavlovna, a little brunette of thirty, with a long
nose and a pointed chin. Tightly laced, with her face carefully
powdered, she danced without pausing for breath -- danced till
she was ready to drop exhausted. But though she was exhausted in
body, her spirit was inexhaustible. . . . One could see as she
danced that her thoughts were with the past, that faraway past
when she used to dance at the "College for Young Ladies,"
dreaming of a life of luxury and gaiety, and never doubting that
her husband was to be a prince or, at the worst, a baron.
The tax-collector watched, scowling with spite. . . .
It was not jealousy he was feeling. He was ill-humoured --
first, because the room was taken up with dancing and there was
nowhere he could play a game of cards; secondly, because he
could not endure the sound of wind instruments; and, thirdly,
because he fancied the officers treated the civilians somewhat
too casually and disdainfully. But what above everything
revolted him and moved him to indignation was the expression of
happiness on his wife's face.
"It makes me sick to look at her!" he muttered. "Going on for
forty, and nothing to boast of at any time, and she must powder
her face and lace herself up! And frizzing her hair! Flirting
and making faces, and fancying she's doing the thing in style!
Ugh! you're a pretty figure, upon my soul!"
Anna Pavlovna was so lost in the dance that she did not once
glance at her husband.
"Of course not! Where do we poor country bumpkins come in!"
sneered the tax-collector.
"We are at a discount now. . . . We're clumsy seals, unpolished
provincial bears, and she's the queen of the ball! She has kept
enough of her looks to please even officers. . . They'd not
object to making love to her, I dare say!"
During the mazurka the tax-collector's face twitched with spite.
A black-haired officer with prominent eyes and Tartar cheekbones
danced the mazurka with Anna Pavlovna. Assuming a stern
expression, he worked his legs with gravity and feeling, and so
crooked his knees that he looked like a jack-a-dandy pulled by
strings, while Anna Pavlovna, pale and thrilled, bending her
figure languidly and turning her eyes up, tried to look as
though she scarcely touched the floor, and evidently felt
herself that she was not on earth, not at the local club, but
somewhere far, far away -- in the clouds. Not only her face but
her whole figure was expressive of beatitude. . . . The
tax-collector could endure it no longer; he felt a desire to
jeer at that beatitude, to make Anna Pavlovna feel that she had
forgotten herself, that life was by no means so delightful as
she fancied now in her excitement. . . .
"You wait; I'll teach you to smile so blissfully," he muttered.
"You are not a boarding-school miss, you are not a girl. An old
fright ought to realise she is a fright!"
Petty feelings of envy, vexation, wounded vanity, of that small,
provincial misanthropy engendered in petty officials by vodka
and a sedentary life, swarmed in his heart like mice. Waiting
for the end of the mazurka, he went into the hall and walked up
to his wife. Anna Pavlovna was sitting with her partner, and,
flirting her fan and coquettishly dropping her eyelids, was
describing how she used to dance in Petersburg (her lips were
pursed up like a rosebud, and she pronounced "at home in
"Anyuta, let us go home," croaked the tax-collector.
Seeing her husband standing before her, Anna Pavlovna started as
though recalling the fact that she had a husband; then she
flushed all over: she felt ashamed that she had such a
sickly-looking, ill-humoured, ordinary husband.
"Let us go home," repeated the tax-collector.
"Why? It's quite early!"
"I beg you to come home!" said the tax-collector deliberately,
with a spiteful expression.
"Why? Has anything happened?" Anna Pavlovna asked in a flutter.
"Nothing has happened, but I wish you to go home at once. . . .
I wish it; that's enough, and without further talk, please."
Anna Pavlovna was not afraid of her husband, but she felt
ashamed on account of her partner, who was looking at her
husband with surprise and amusement. She got up and moved a
little apart with her husband.
"What notion is this?" she began. "Why go home? Why, it's not
"I wish it, and that's enough. Come along, and that's all about
"Don't be silly! Go home alone if you want to."
"All right; then I shall make a scene."
The tax-collector saw the look of beatitude gradually vanish
from his wife's face, saw how ashamed and miserable she was --
and he felt a little happier.
"Why do you want me at once?" asked his wife.
"I don't want you, but I wish you to be at home. I wish it,
At first Anna Pavlovna refused to hear of it, then she began
entreating her husband to let her stay just another half-hour;
then, without knowing why, she began to apologise, to protest --
and all in a whisper, with a smile, that the spectators might
not suspect that she was having a tiff with her husband. She
began assuring him she would not stay long, only another ten
minutes, only five minutes; but the tax-collector stuck
obstinately to his point.
"Stay if you like," he said, "but I'll make a scene if you do."
And as she talked to her husband Anna Pavlovna looked thinner,
older, plainer. Pale, biting her lips, and almost crying, she
went out to the entry and began putting on her things.
"You are not going?" asked the ladies in surprise. "Anna
Pavlovna, you are not going, dear?"
"Her head aches," said the tax-collector for his wife.
Coming out of the club, the husband and wife walked all the way
home in silence. The tax-collector walked behind his wife, and
watching her downcast, sorrowful, humiliated little figure, he
recalled the look of beatitude which had so irritated him at the
club, and the consciousness that the beatitude was gone filled
his soul with triumph. He was pleased and satisfied, and at the
same time he felt the lack of something; he would have liked to
go back to the club and make every one feel dreary and
miserable, so that all might know how stale and worthless life
is when you walk along the streets in the dark and hear the
slush of the mud under your feet, and when you know that you
will wake up next morning with nothing to look forward to but
vodka and cards. Oh, how awful it is!
And Anna Pavlovna could scarcely walk. . . . She was still under
the influence of the dancing, the music, the talk, the lights,
and the noise; she asked herself as she walked along why God had
thus afflicted her. She felt miserable, insulted, and choking
with hate as she listened to her husband's heavy footsteps. She
was silent, trying to think of the most offensive, biting, and
venomous word she could hurl at her husband, and at the same
time she was fully aware that no word could penetrate her
tax-collector's hide. What did he care for words? Her bitterest
enemy could not have contrived for her a more helpless position.
And meanwhile the band was playing and the darkness was full of
the most rousing, intoxicating dance-tunes.
on tick: on credit
making love: in the 19th century this meant declaring one's