Short Stories-13: "The Kiss" by Anton Chekhov

The Kiss by Anton Chekhov
Translated by Constance Black Garnett

At eight o’clock on the evening of the twentieth of May all the sixbatteries of the N—- Reserve Artillery Brigade halted for the night inthe village of Myestetchki on their way to camp. When the generalcommotion was at its height, while some officers were busily occupiedaround the guns, while others, gathered together in the square near thechurch enclosure, were listening to the quartermasters, a man incivilian dress, riding a strange horse, came into sight round thechurch. The little dun-coloured horse with a good neck and a short tailcame, moving not straight forward, but as it were sideways, with a sortof dance step, as though it were being lashed about the legs. When hereached the officers the man on the horse took off his hat and said:

“His Excellency Lieutenant-General von Rabbek invites the gentlemen todrink tea with him this minute…”

The horse turned, danced, and retired sideways; the messenger raised hishat once more, and in an instant disappeared with his strange horsebehind the church.

“What the devil does it mean?” grumbled some of the officers, dispersingto their quarters. “One is sleepy, and here this Von Rabbek with histea! We know what tea means.”

The officers of all the six batteries remembered vividly an incident ofthe previous year, when during manoeuvres they, together with theofficers of a Cossack regiment, were in the same way invited to tea by acount who had an estate in the neighbourhood and was a retired armyofficer: the hospitable and genial count made much of them, fed them,and gave them drink, refused to let them go to their quarters in thevillage and made them stay the night. All that, of course, was verynice–nothing better could be desired, but the worst of it was, the oldarmy officer was so carried away by the pleasure of the young men’scompany that till sunrise he was telling the officers anecdotes of hisglorious past, taking them over the house, showing them expensivepictures, old engravings, rare guns, reading them autograph letters fromgreat people, while the weary and exhausted officers looked andlistened, longing for their beds and yawning in their sleeves; when atlast their host let them go, it was too late for sleep.

Might not this Von Rabbek be just such another? Whether he were or not,there was no help for it. The officers changed their uniforms, brushedthemselves, and went all together in search of the gentleman’s house. Inthe square by the church they were told they could get to HisExcellency’s by the lower path–going down behind the church to theriver, going along the bank to the garden, and there an avenue wouldtaken them to the house; or by the upper way–straight from the churchby the road which, half a mile from the village, led right up to HisExcellency’s granaries. The officers decided to go by the upper way.

“What Von Rabbek is it?” they wondered on the way. “Surely not the onewho was in command of the N—- cavalry division at Plevna?”

“No, that was not Von Rabbek, but simply Rabbe and no ‘von.’”

“What lovely weather!”

At the first of the granaries the road divided in two: one branch wentstraight on and vanished in the evening darkness, the other led to theowner’s house on the right. The officers turned to the right and beganto speak more softly…On both sides of the road stretched stonegranaries with red roofs, heavy and sullen-looking, very much likebarracks of a district town. Ahead of them gleamed the windows of themanor-house.

“A good omen, gentlemen,” said one of the officers. “Our setter is theforemost of all; no doubt he scents game ahead of us!…”

Lieutenant Lobytko, who was walking in front, a tall and stalwartfellow, though entirely without moustache (he was over five-and-twenty,yet for some reason there was no sign of hair on his round, well-fedface), renowned in the brigade for his peculiar faculty for divining thepresence of women at a distance, turned round and said:

“Yes, there must be women here; I feel that by instinct.”

On the threshold the officers were met by Von Rabbek himself, acomely-looking man of sixty in civilian dress. Shaking hands with hisguests, he said that he was very glad and happy to see them, but beggedthem earnestly for God’s sake to excuse him for not asking them to staythe night; two sisters with their children, some brothers, and someneighbours, had come on a visit to him, so that he had not one spareroom left.

The General shook hands with every one, made his apologies, and smiled,but it was evident by his face that he was by no means so delighted astheir last year’s count, and that he had invited the officers simplybecause, in his opinion, it was a social obligation to do so. And theofficers themselves, as they walked up the softly carpeted stairs, asthey listened to him, felt that they had been invited to this housesimply because it would have been awkward not to invite them; and at thesight of the footmen, who hastened to light the lamps in the entrancebelow and in the anteroom above, they began to feel as though they hadbrought uneasiness and discomfort into the house with them. In a housein which two sisters and their children, brothers, and neighbours weregathered together, probably on account of some family festivity, orevent, how could the presence of nineteen unknown officers possibly bewelcome?

At the entrance to the drawing-room the officers were met by a tall,graceful old lady with black eyebrows and a long face, very much likethe Empress Eugénie. Smiling graciously and majestically, she said shewas glad and happy to see her guests, and apologized that her husbandand she were on this occasion unable to invite messieurs les officiersto stay the night. From her beautiful majestic smile, which instantlyvanished from her face every time she turned away from her guests, itwas evident that she had seen numbers of officers in her day, that shewas in no humour for them now, and if she invited them to her house andapologized for not doing more, it was only because her breeding andposition in society required it of her.

When the officers went into the big dining-room, there were about adozen people, men and ladies, young and old, sitting at tea at the endof a long table. A group of men was dimly visible behind their chairs,wrapped in a haze of cigar smoke; and in the midst of them stood a lankyyoung man with red whiskers, talking loudly, with a lisp, in English.Through a door beyond the group could be seen a light room with paleblue furniture.

“Gentlemen, there are so many of you that it is impossible to introduceyou all!” said the General in a loud voice, trying to sound verycheerful. “Make each other’s acquaintance, gentlemen, without anyceremony!”

The officers–some with very serious and even stern faces, others withforced smiles, and all feeling extremely awkward–somehow made theirbows and sat down to tea.

The most ill at ease of them all was Ryabovitch–a little officer inspectacles, with sloping shoulders, and whiskers like a lynx’s. Whilesome of his comrades assumed a serious expression, while others woreforced smiles, his face, his lynx-like whiskers, and spectacles seemedto say: “I am the shyest, most modest, and most undistinguished officerin the whole brigade!” At first, on going into the room and sitting downto the table, he could not fix his attention on any one face or object.The faces, the dresses, the cut-glass decanters of brandy, the steamfrom the glasses, the moulded cornices–all blended in one generalimpression that inspired in Ryabovitch alarm and a desire to hide hishead. Like a lecturer making his first appearance before the public, hesaw everything that was before his eyes, but apparently only had a dimunderstanding of it (among physiologists this condition, when thesubject sees but does not understand, is called psychical blindness).After a little while, growing accustomed to his surroundings, Ryabovitchsaw clearly and began to observe. As a shy man, unused to society, whatstruck him first was that in which he had always been deficient–namely,the extraordinary boldness of his new acquaintances. Von Rabbek, hiswife, two elderly ladies, a young lady in a lilac dress, and the youngman with the red whiskers, who was, it appeared, a younger son of VonRabbek, very cleverly, as though they had rehearsed it beforehand, tookseats between the officers, and at once got up a heated discussion inwhich the visitors could not help taking part. The lilac young ladyhotly asserted that the artillery had a much better time than thecavalry and the infantry, while Von Rabbek and the elderly ladiesmaintained the opposite. A brisk interchange of talk followed.Ryabovitch watched the lilac young lady who argued so hotly about whatwas unfamiliar and utterly uninteresting to her, and watched artificialsmiles come and go on her face.

Von Rabbek and his family skilfully drew the officers into thediscussion, and meanwhile kept a sharp lookout over their glasses andmouths, to see whether all of them were drinking, whether all had enoughsugar, why some one was not eating cakes or not drinking brandy. And thelonger Ryabovitch watched and listened, the more he was attracted bythis insincere but splendidly disciplined family.

After tea the officers went into the drawing-room. Lieutenant Lobytko’sinstinct had not deceived him. There were a great number of girls andyoung married ladies. The “setter” lieutenant was soon standing by avery young, fair girl in a black dress, and, bending down to herjauntily, as though leaning on an unseen sword, smiled and shrugged hisshoulders coquettishly. He probably talked very interesting nonsense,for the fair girl looked at his well-fed face condescendingly and askedindifferently, “Really?” And from that uninterested “Really?” thesetter, had he been intelligent, might have concluded that she wouldnever call him to heel.

The piano struck up; the melancholy strains of a valse floated out ofthe wide open windows, and every one, for some reason, remembered thatit was spring, a May evening. Every one was conscious of the fragranceof roses, of lilac, and of the young leaves of the poplar. Ryabovitch,in whom the brandy he had drunk made itself felt, under the influence ofthe music stole a glance towards the window, smiled, and began watchingthe movements of the women, and it seemed to him that the smell ofroses, of poplars, and lilac came not from the garden, but from theladies’ faces and dresses.

Von Rabbek’s son invited a scraggy-looking young lady to dance, andwaltzed round the room twice with her. Lobytko, gliding over the parquetfloor, flew up to the lilac young lady and whirled her away. Dancingbegan…Ryabovitch stood near the door among those who were not dancingand looked on. He had never once danced in his whole life, and he hadnever once in his life put his arm round the waist of a respectablewoman. He was highly delighted that a man should in the sight of alltake a girl he did not know round the waist and offer her his shoulderto put her hand on, but he could not imagine himself in the position ofsuch a man. There were times when he envied the boldness and swagger ofhis companions and was inwardly wretched; the consciousness that he wastimid, that he was round-shouldered and uninteresting, that he had along waist and lynx-like whiskers, had deeply mortified him, but withyears he had grown used to this feeling, and now, looking at hiscomrades dancing or loudly talking, he no longer envied them, but onlyfelt touched and mournful.

When the quadrille began, young Von Rabbek came up to those who were notdancing and invited two officers to have a game at billiards. Theofficers accepted and went with him out of the drawing-room. Ryabovitch,having nothing to do and wishing to take part in the general movement,slouched after them. From the big drawing-room they went into the littledrawing-room, then into a narrow corridor with a glass roof, and thenceinto a room in which on their entrance three sleepy-looking footmenjumped up quickly from the sofa. At last, after passing through a longsuccession of rooms, young Von Rabbek and the officers came into a smallroom where there was a billiard-table. They began to play.

Ryabovitch, who had never played any game but cards, stood near thebilliard-table and looked indifferently at the players, while they inunbuttoned coats, with cues in their hands, stepped about, made puns,and kept shouting out unintelligible words.

The players took no notice of him, and only now and then one of them,shoving him with his elbow or accidentally touching him with the end ofhis cue, would turn round and say “Pardon!” Before the first game wasover he was weary of it, and began to feel he was not wanted and in theway…He felt disposed to return to the drawing-room, and he went out.

On his way back he met with a little adventure. When he had gonehalf-way he noticed he had taken a wrong turning. He distinctlyremembered that he ought to meet three sleepy footmen on his way, but hehad passed five or six rooms, and those sleepy figures seemed to havevanished into the earth. Noticing his mistake, he walked back a littleway and turned to the right; he found himself in a little dark roomwhich he had not seen on his way to the billiard-room. After standingthere a little while, he resolutely opened the first door that met hiseyes and walked into an absolutely dark room. Straight in front could beseen the crack in the doorway through which there was a gleam of vividlight; from the other side of the door came the muffled sound of amelancholy mazurka. Here, too, as in the drawing-room, the windows werewide open and there was a smell of poplars, lilac and roses…

Ryabovitch stood still in hesitation…At that moment, to his surprise,he heard hurried footsteps and the rustling of a dress, a breathlessfeminine voice whispered “At last!” And two soft, fragrant, unmistakablyfeminine arms were clasped about his neck; a warm cheek was pressed tohis cheek, and simultaneously there was the sound of a kiss. But at oncethe bestower of the kiss uttered a faint shriek and skipped back fromhim, as it seemed to Ryabovitch, with aversion. He, too, almost shriekedand rushed towards the gleam of light at the door…

When he went back into the drawing-room his heart was beating and hishands were trembling so noticeably that he made haste to hide thembehind his back. At first he was tormented by shame and dread that thewhole drawing-room knew that he had just been kissed and embraced by awoman. He shrank into himself and looked uneasily about him, but as hebecame convinced that people were dancing and talking as calmly as ever,he gave himself up entirely to the new sensation which he had neverexperienced before in his life. Something strange was happening tohim…His neck, round which soft, fragrant arms had so lately beenclasped, seemed to him to be anointed with oil; on his left cheek nearhis moustache where the unknown had kissed him there was a faint chillytingling sensation as from peppermint drops, and the more he rubbed theplace the more distinct was the chilly sensation; all over, from head tofoot, he was full of a strange new feeling which grew stronger andstronger…He wanted to dance, to talk, to run into the garden, to laughaloud…He quite forgot that he was round-shouldered and uninteresting,that he had lynx-like whiskers and an “undistinguished appearance” (thatwas how his appearance had been described by some ladies whoseconversation he had accidentally overheard). When Von Rabbek’s wifehappened to pass by him, he gave her such a broad and friendly smilethat she stood still and looked at him inquiringly.

“I like your house immensely!” he said, setting his spectacles straight.

The General’s wife smiled and said that the house had belonged to herfather; then she asked whether his parents were living, whether he hadlong been in the army, why he was so thin, and so on… After receivinganswers to her questions, she went on, and after his conversation withher his smiles were more friendly than ever, and he thought he wassurrounded by splendid people…

At supper Ryabovitch ate mechanically everything offered him, drank, andwithout listening to anything, tried to understand what had justhappened to him…The adventure was of a mysterious and romanticcharacter, but it was not difficult to explain it. No doubt some girl oryoung married lady had arranged a tryst with some one in the dark room;had waited a long time, and being nervous and excited had takenRyabovitch for her hero; this was the more probable as Ryabovitch hadstood still hesitating in the dark room, so that he, too, had seemedlike a person expecting something…This was how Ryabovitch explained tohimself the kiss he had received.

“And who is she?” he wondered, looking round at the women’s faces. “Shemust be young, for elderly ladies don’t give rendezvous. That she was alady, one could tell by the rustle of her dress, her perfume, hervoice…”

His eyes rested on the lilac young lady, and he thought her veryattractive; she had beautiful shoulders and arms, a clever face, and adelightful voice. Ryabovitch, looking at her, hoped that she and no oneelse was his unknown…But she laughed somehow artificially and wrinkledup her long nose, which seemed to him to make her look old. Then heturned his eyes upon the fair girl in a black dress. She was younger,simpler, and more genuine, had a charming brow, and drank very daintilyout of her wineglass. Ryabovitch now hoped that it was she. But soon hebegan to think her face flat, and fixed his eyes upon the one next her.

“It’s difficult to guess,” he thought, musing. “If one takes theshoulders and arms of the lilac one only, adds the brow of the fair oneand the eyes of the one on the left of Lobytko, then…”

He made a combination of these things in his mind and so formed theimage of the girl who had kissed him, the image that he wanted her tohave, but could not find at the table…

After supper, replete and exhilarated, the officers began to take leaveand say thank you. Von Rabbek and his wife began again apologizing thatthey could not ask them to stay the night.

“Very, very glad to have met you, gentlemen,” said Von Rabbek, and thistime sincerely (probably because people are far more sincere andgood-humoured at speeding their parting guests than on meeting them).”Delighted. I hope you will come on your way back! Don’t stand onceremony! Where are you going? Do you want to go by the upper way? No,go across the garden; it’s nearer here by the lower way.”

The officers went out into the garden. After the bright light and thenoise the garden seemed very dark and quiet. They walked in silence allthe way to the gate. They were a little drunk, pleased, and in goodspirits, but the darkness and silence made them thoughtful for a minute.Probably the same idea occurred to each one of them as to Ryabovitch:would there ever come a time for them when, like Von Rabbek, they wouldhave a large house, a family, a garden–when they, too, would be able towelcome people, even though insincerely, feed them, make them drunk andcontented?

Going out of the garden gate, they all began talking at once andlaughing loudly about nothing. They were walking now along the littlepath that led down to the river, and then ran along the water’s edge,winding round the bushes on the bank, the pools, and the willows thatoverhung the water. The bank and the path were scarcely visible, and theother bank was entirely plunged in darkness. Stars were reflected hereand there on the dark water; they quivered and were broken up on thesurface–and from that alone it could be seen that the river was flowingrapidly. It was still. Drowsy curlews cried plaintively on the furtherbank, and in one of the bushes on the nearest side a nightingale wastrilling loudly, taking no notice of the crowd of officers. The officersstood round the bush, touched it, but the nightingale went on singing.

“What a fellow!” they exclaimed approvingly. “We stand beside him and hetakes not a bit of notice! What a rascal!”

At the end of the way the path went uphill, and, skirting the churchenclosure, turned into the road. Here the officers, tired with walkinguphill, sat down and lighted their cigarettes. On the other side of theriver a murky red fire came into sight, and having nothing better to do,they spent a long time in discussing whether it was a camp fire or alight in a window, or something else…Ryabovitch, too, looked at thelight, and he fancied that the light looked and winked at him, as thoughit knew about the kiss.

On reaching his quarters, Ryabovitch undressed as quickly as possibleand got into bed. Lobytko and Lieutenant Merzlyakov–a peaceable, silentfellow, who was considered in his own circle a highly educated officer,and was always, whenever it was possible, reading the “Vyestnik Evropi,”which he carried about with him everywhere–were quartered in the samehut with Ryabovitch. Lobytko undressed, walked up and down the room fora long while with the air of a man who has not been satisfied, and senthis orderly for beer. Merzlyakov got into bed, put a candle by hispillow and plunged into reading the “Vyestnik Evropi.”

“Who was she?” Ryabovitch wondered, looking at the smoky ceiling.

His neck still felt as though he had been anointed with oil, and therewas still the chilly sensation near his mouth as though from peppermintdrops. The shoulders and arms of the young lady in lilac, the brow andthe truthful eyes of the fair girl in black, waists, dresses, andbrooches, floated through his imagination. He tried to fix his attentionon these images, but they danced about, broke up and flickered. Whenthese images vanished altogether from the broad dark background whichevery man sees when he closes his eyes, he began to hear hurriedfootsteps, the rustle of skirts, the sound of a kiss and–an intensegroundless joy took possession of him…Abandoning himself to this joy,he heard the orderly return and announce that there was no beer.

Lobytkowas terribly indignant, and began pacing up and down again.

“Well, isn’t he an idiot?” he kept saying, stopping first beforeRyabovitch and then before Merzlyakov. “What a fool and a dummy a manmust be not to get hold of any beer! Eh? Isn’t he a scoundrel?”

“Of course you can’t get beer here,” said Merzlyakov, not removing hiseyes from the “Vyestnik Evropi.”

“Oh! Is that your opinion?” Lobytko persisted. “Lord have mercy upon us,if you dropped me on the moon I’d find you beer and women directly! I’llgo and find some at once…You may call me an impostor if I don’t!”

He spent a long time in dressing and pulling on his high boots, thenfinished smoking his cigarette in silence and went out.

“Rabbek, Grabbek, Labbek,” he muttered, stopping in the outer room. “Idon’t care to go alone, damn it all! Ryabovitch, wouldn’t you like to gofor a walk? Eh?”

Receiving no answer, he returned, slowly undressed and got into bed.Merzlyakov sighed, put the “Vyestnik Evropi” away, and put out thelight.

“H’m!…” muttered Lobytko, lighting a cigarette in the dark.

Ryabovitch pulled the bed-clothes over his head, curled himself up inbed, and tried to gather together the floating images in his mind and tocombine them into one whole. But nothing came of it. He soon fellasleep, and his last thought was that some one had caressed him and madehim happy–that something extraordinary, foolish, but joyful anddelightful, had come into his life. The thought did not leave him evenin his sleep.

When he woke up the sensations of oil on his neck and the chill ofpeppermint about his lips had gone, but joy flooded his heart just asthe day before. He looked enthusiastically at the window-frames, gildedby the light of the rising sun, and listened to the movement of thepassers-by in the street. People were talking loudly close to thewindow. Lebedetsky, the commander of Ryabovitch’s battery, who had onlyjust overtaken the brigade, was talking to his sergeant at the top ofhis voice, being always accustomed to shout.

“What else?” shouted the commander.

“When they were shoeing yesterday, your high nobility, they drove a nailinto Pigeon’s hoof. The vet. put on clay and vinegar; they are leadinghim apart now. And also, your honour, Artemyev got drunk yesterday, andthe lieutenant ordered him to be put in the limber of a sparegun-carriage.”

The sergeant reported that Karpov had forgotten the new cords for thetrumpets and the rings for the tents, and that their honours, theofficers, had spent the previous evening visiting General Von Rabbek. Inthe middle of this conversation the red-bearded face of Lebedetskyappeared in the window. He screwed up his short-sighted eyes, looking atthe sleepy faces of the officers, and said good-morning to them.

“Is everything all right?” he asked.

“One of the horses has a sore neck from the new collar,” answeredLobytko, yawning.

The commander sighed, thought a moment, and said in a loud voice:

“I am thinking of going to see Alexandra Yevgrafovna. I must call onher. Well, good-bye. I shall catch you up in the evening.”

A quarter of an hour later the brigade set off on its way. When it wasmoving along the road by the granaries, Ryabovitch looked at the houseon the right. The blinds were down in all the windows. Evidently thehousehold was still asleep. The one who had kissed Ryabovitch the daybefore was asleep, too. He tried to imagine her asleep. The wide-openwindows of the bedroom, the green branches peeping in, the morningfreshness, the scent of the poplars, lilac, and roses, the bed, a chair,and on it the skirts that had rustled the day before, the littleslippers, the little watch on the table–all this he pictured to himselfclearly and distinctly, but the features of the face, the sweet sleepysmile, just what was characteristic and important, slipped through hisimagination like quicksilver through the fingers. When he had ridden onhalf a mile, he looked back: the yellow church, the house, and theriver, were all bathed in light; the river with its bright green banks,with the blue sky reflected in it and glints of silver in the sunshinehere and there, was very beautiful. Ryabovitch gazed for the last timeat Myestetchki, and he felt as sad as though he were parting withsomething very near and dear to him.

And before him on the road lay nothing but long familiar, uninterestingpictures…To right and to left, fields of young rye and buckwheat withrooks hopping about in them. If one looked ahead, one saw dust and thebacks of men’s heads; if one looked back, one saw the same dust andfaces…Foremost of all marched four men with sabres–this was thevanguard. Next, behind, the crowd of singers, and behind them thetrumpeters on horseback. The vanguard and the chorus of singers, liketorch-bearers in a funeral procession, often forgot to keep theregulation distance and pushed a long way ahead…Ryabovitch was withthe first cannon of the fifth battery. He could see all the fourbatteries moving in front of him. For any one not a military man thislong tedious procession of a moving brigade seems an intricate andunintelligible muddle; one cannot understand why there are so manypeople round one cannon, and why it is drawn by so many horses in such astrange network of harness, as though it really were so terrible andheavy. To Ryabovitch it was all perfectly comprehensible and thereforeuninteresting. He had known for ever so long why at the head of eachbattery there rode a stalwart bombardier, and why he was called abombardier; immediately behind this bombardier could be seen thehorsemen of the first and then of the middle units. Ryabovitch knew thatthe horses on which they rode, those on the left, were called one name,while those on the right were called another–it was extremelyuninteresting. Behind the horsemen came two shaft-horses. On one of themsat a rider with the dust of yesterday on his back and a clumsy andfunny-looking piece of wood on his leg. Ryabovitch knew the object ofthis piece of wood, and did not think it funny. All the riders wavedtheir whips mechanically and shouted from time to time. The cannonitself was ugly. On the fore part lay sacks of oats covered with canvas,and the cannon itself was hung all over with kettles, soldiers’knapsacks, bags, and looked like some small harmless animal surroundedfor some unknown reason by men and horses. To the leeward of it marchedsix men, the gunners, swinging their arms. After the cannon there cameagain more bombardiers, riders, shaft-horses, and behind them anothercannon, as ugly and unimpressive as the first. After the second followeda third, a fourth; near the fourth an officer, and so on. There were sixbatteries in all in the brigade, and four cannons in each battery. Theprocession covered half a mile; it ended in a string of wagons nearwhich an extremely attractive creature–the ass, Magar, brought by abattery commander from Turkey–paced pensively with his long-eared headdrooping.

Ryabovitch looked indifferently before and behind, at the backs of headsand at faces; at any other time he would have been half asleep, but nowhe was entirely absorbed in his new agreeable thoughts. At first whenthe brigade was setting off on the march he tried to persuade himselfthat the incident of the kiss could only be interesting as a mysteriouslittle adventure, that it was in reality trivial, and to think of itseriously, to say the least of it, was stupid; but now he bade farewellto logic and gave himself up to dreams…At one moment he imaginedhimself in Von Rabbek’s drawing-room beside a girl who was like theyoung lady in lilac and the fair girl in black; then he would close hiseyes and see himself with another, entirely unknown girl, whose featureswere very vague. In his imagination he talked, caressed her, leaned onher shoulder, pictured war, separation, then meeting again, supper withhis wife, children…

“Brakes on!” the word of command rang out every time they went downhill.

He, too, shouted “Brakes on!” and was afraid this shout would disturbhis reverie and bring him back to reality…

As they passed by some landowner’s estate Ryabovitch looked over thefence into the garden. A long avenue, straight as a ruler, strewn withyellow sand and bordered with young birch-trees, met his eyes…With theeagerness of a man given up to dreaming, he pictured to himself littlefeminine feet tripping along yellow sand, and quite unexpectedly had aclear vision in his imagination of the girl who had kissed him and whomhe had succeeded in picturing to himself the evening before at supper.This image remained in his brain and did not desert him again.

At midday there was a shout in the rear near the string of wagons:

“Easy! Eyes to the left! Officers!”

The general of the brigade drove by in a carriage with a pair of whitehorses. He stopped near the second battery, and shouted something whichno one understood. Several officers, among them

Ryabovitch, galloped upto them.

“Well?” asked the general, blinking his red eyes. “Are there any sick?”

Receiving an answer, the general, a little skinny man, chewed, thoughtfor a moment and said, addressing one of the officers:

“One of your drivers of the third cannon has taken off his leg-guard andhung it on the fore part of the cannon, the rascal. Reprimand him.”

He raised his eyes to Ryabovitch and went on:

“It seems to me your front strap is too long.”

Making a few other tedious remarks, the general looked at Lobytko andgrinned.

“You look very melancholy today, Lieutenant Lobytko,” he said. “Are youpining for Madame Lopuhov? Eh? Gentlemen, he is pining for MadameLopuhov.”

The lady in question was a very stout and tall person who had longpassed her fortieth year. The general, who had a predilection for solidladies, whatever their ages, suspected a similar taste in his officers.The officers smiled respectfully. The general, delighted at having saidsomething very amusing and biting, laughed loudly, touched hiscoachman’s back, and saluted. The carriage rolled on…

“All I am dreaming about now which seems to me so impossible andunearthly is really quite an ordinary thing,” thought Ryabovitch,looking at the clouds of dust racing after the general’s carriage. “It’sall very ordinary, and every one goes through it…That general, forinstance, has once been in love; now he is married and has children.Captain Vahter, too, is married and beloved, though the nape of his neckis very red and ugly and he has no waist…Salrnanov is coarse and veryTatar, but he has had a love affair that has ended in marriage…I amthe same as every one else, and I, too, shall have the same experienceas every one else, sooner or later…”

And the thought that he was an ordinary person, and that his life wasordinary, delighted him and gave him courage. He pictured her and hishappiness as he pleased, and put no rein on his imagination.

When the brigade reached their halting-place in the evening, and theofficers were resting in their tents, Ryabovitch, Merzlyakov, andLobytko were sitting round a box having supper. Merzlyakov ate withouthaste, and, as he munched deliberately, read the “Vyestnik Evropi,”which he held on his knees. Lobytko talked incessantly and kept fillingup his glass with beer, and Ryabovitch, whose head was confused fromdreaming all day long, drank and said nothing. After three glasses hegot a little drunk, felt weak, and had an irresistible desire to imparthis new sensations to his comrades.

“A strange thing happened to me at those Von Rabbeks’,” he began, tryingto put an indifferent and ironical tone into his voice. “You know I wentinto the billiard-room…”
He began describing very minutely the incident of the kiss, and a momentlater relapsed into silence…In the course of that moment he had toldeverything, and it surprised him dreadfully to find how short a time ittook him to tell it. He had imagined that he could have been telling thestory of the kiss till next morning. Listening to him, Lobytko, who wasa great liar and consequently believed no one, looked at him scepticallyand laughed. Merzlyakov twitched his eyebrows and, without removing hiseyes from the “Vyestnik Evropi,” said:

“That’s an odd thing! How strange!…throws herself on a man’s neck,without addressing him by name…She must be some sort of hystericalneurotic.”

“Yes, she must,” Ryabovitch agreed.

“A similar thing once happened to me,” said Lobytko, assuming a scaredexpression. “I was going last year to Kovno…I took a second-classticket. The train was crammed, and it was impossible to sleep. I gavethe guard half a rouble; he took my luggage and led me to anothercompartment…I lay down and covered myself with a rug…It was dark,you understand. Suddenly I felt some one touch me on the shoulder andbreathe in my face. I made a movement with my hand and felt somebody’selbow…I opened my eyes and only imagine–a woman. Black eyes, lips redas a prime salmon, nostrils breathing passionately–a bosom like abuffer…”

“Excuse me,” Merzlyakov interrupted calmly, “I understand about thebosom, but how could you see the lips if it was dark?”

Lobytko began trying to put himself right and laughing at Merzlyakov’sunimaginativeness. It made Ryabovitch wince. He walked away from thebox, got into bed, and vowed never to confide again.

Camp life began…The days flowed by, one very much like another. Allthose days Ryabovitch felt, thought, and behaved as though he were inlove. Every morning when his orderly handed him water to wash with, andhe sluiced his head with cold water, he thought there was something warmand delightful in his life.

In the evenings when his comrades began talking of love and women, hewould listen, and draw up closer; and he wore the expression of asoldier when he hears the description of a battle in which he has takenpart. And on the evenings when the officers, out on the spree with thesetter–Lobytko–at their head, made Don Juan excursions to the”suburb,” and Ryabovitch took part in such excursions, he always wassad, felt profoundly guilty, and inwardly begged her forgiveness…Inhours of leisure or on sleepless nights, when he felt moved to recallhis childhood, his father and mother–everything near and dear, in fact,he invariably thought of Myestetchki, the strange horse, Von Rabbek, hiswife who was like the Empress Eugénie, the dark room, the crack of lightat the door…

On the thirty-first of August he went back from the camp, not with thewhole brigade, but with only two batteries of it. He was dreaming andexcited all the way, as though he were going back to his native place.He had an intense longing to see again the strange horse, the church,the insincere family of the Von Rabbeks, the dark room. The “innervoice,” which so often deceives lovers, whispered to him for some reasonthat he would be sure to see her…and he was tortured by the questions,How he should meet her? What he would talk to her about? Whether she hadforgotten the kiss? If the worst came to the worst, he thought, even ifhe did not meet her, it would be a pleasure to him merely to go throughthe dark room and recall the past…

Towards evening there appeared on the horizon the familiar church andwhite granaries.

Ryabovitch’s heart beat…He did not hear the officerwho was riding beside him and saying something to him, he forgoteverything, and looked eagerly at the river shining in the distance, atthe roof of the house, at the dovecote round which the pigeons werecircling in the light of the setting sun.

When they reached the church and were listening to the billeting orders,he expected every second that a man on horseback would come round thechurch enclosure and invite the officers to tea, but…the billetingorders were read, the officers were in haste to go on to the village,and the man on horseback did not appear.

“Von Rabbek will hear at once from the peasants that we have come andwill send for us,” thought Ryabovitch, as he went into the hut, unableto understand why a comrade was lighting a candle and why the orderlieswere hurriedly setting samovars…

A painful uneasiness took possession of him. He lay down, then got upand looked out of the window to see whether the messenger were coming.But there was no sign of him.

He lay down again, but half an hour later he got up, and, unable torestrain his uneasiness, went into the street and strode towards thechurch. It was dark and deserted in the square near the church…Threesoldiers were standing silent in a row where the road began to godownhill. Seeing Ryabovitch, they roused themselves and saluted. Hereturned the salute and began to go down the familiar path.

On the further side of the river the whole sky was flooded with crimson:the moon was rising; two peasant women, talking loudly, were pickingcabbage in the kitchen garden; behind the kitchen garden there were somedark huts…And everything on the near side of the river was just as ithad been in May: the path, the bushes, the willows overhanging thewater…but there was no sound of the brave nightingale, and no scent ofpoplar and fresh grass.

Reaching the garden, Ryabovitch looked in at the gate. The garden wasdark and still…He could see nothing but the white stems of the nearestbirch-trees and a little bit of the avenue; all the rest melted togetherinto a dark blur. Ryabovitch looked and listened eagerly, but afterwaiting for a quarter of an hour without hearing a sound or catching aglimpse of a light, he trudged back…

He went down to the river. The General’s bath-house and the bath-sheetson the rail of the little bridge showed white before him…He went on tothe bridge, stood a little, and, quite unnecessarily, touched thesheets. They felt rough and cold. He looked down at the water…Theriver ran rapidly and with a faintly audible gurgle round the piles ofthe bath-house. The red moon was reflected near the left bank; littleripples ran over the reflection, stretching it out, breaking it intobits, and seemed trying to carry it away.

“How stupid, how stupid!” thought Ryabovitch, looking at the runningwater. “How unintelligent it all is!”

Now that he expected nothing, the incident of the kiss, his impatience,his vague hopes and disappointment, presented themselves in a clearlight. It no longer seemed to him strange that he had not seen theGeneral’s messenger, and that he would never see the girl who hadaccidentally kissed him instead of some one else; on the contrary, itwould have been strange if he had seen her…

The water was running, he knew not where or why, just as it did in May.In May it had flowed into the great river, from the great river into thesea; then it had risen in vapour, turned into rain, and perhaps the verysame water was running now before Ryabovitch’s eyes again…What for?Why?

And the whole world, the whole of life, seemed to Ryabovitch anunintelligible, aimless jest…And turning his eyes from the water andlooking at the sky, he remembered again how fate in the person of anunknown woman had by chance caressed him, he remembered his summerdreams and fancies, and his life struck him as extraordinarily meagre,poverty-stricken, and colourless…

When he went back to his hut he did not find one of his comrades. Theorderly informed him that they had all gone to “General von Rabbek’s,who had sent a messenger on horseback to invite them…”

For an instant there was a flash of joy in Ryabovitch’s heart, but hequenched it at once, got into bed, and in his wrath with his fate, asthough to spite it, did not go to the General’s.

THE END

Grateful thanks to the translator, Constance Black Garnett and Project Gutenberg Australia.

Short Stories-10: "Vanka", a short story by Anton Chekhov (Translated by Constance Garnett )

VANKA ZHUKOV, a boy of nine, who had been for three months apprenticed to Alyahin the shoemaker, was sitting up on Christmas Eve. Waiting till his master and mistress and their workmen had gone to the midnight service, he took out of his master’s cupboard a bottle of ink and a pen with a rusty nib, and, spreading out a crumpled sheet of paper in front of him, began writing. Before forming the first letter he several times looked round fearfully at the door and the windows, stole a glance at the dark ikon, on both sides of which stretched shelves full of lasts, and heaved a broken sigh. The paper lay on the bench while he knelt before it.

“Dear grandfather, Konstantin Makaritch,” he wrote, “I am writing you a letter. I wish you a happy Christmas, and all blessings from God Almighty. I have neither father nor mother, you are the only one left me.”

Vanka raised his eyes to the dark ikon on which the light of his candle was reflected, and vividly recalled his grandfather, Konstantin Makaritch, who was night watchman to a family called Zhivarev. He was a thin but extraordinarily nimble and lively little old man of sixty-five, with an everlastingly laughing face and drunken eyes. By day he slept in the servants’ kitchen, or made jokes with the cooks; at night, wrapped in an ample sheepskin, he walked round the grounds and tapped with his little mallet . Old Kashtanka and Eel, so-called on account of his dark colour and his long body like a weasel’s, followed him with hanging heads. This Eel was exceptionally polite and affectionate, and looked with equal kindness on strangers and his own masters, but had not a very good reputation. Under his politeness and meekness was hidden the most Jesuitical cunning. No one knew better how to creep up on occasion and snap at one’s legs, to slip into the store-room, or steal a hen from a peasant. His hind legs had been nearly pulled off more than once, twice he had been hanged, every week he was thrashed till he was half dead, but he always revived.

At this moment grandfather was, no doubt, standing at the gate, screwing up his eyes at the red windows of the church, stamping with his high felt boots, and joking with the servants. His little mallet was hanging on his belt. He was clasping his hands, shrugging with the cold, and, with an aged chuckle, pinching first the housemaid, then the cook.

“How about a pinch of snuff?” he was saying, offering the women his snuff-box.

The women would take a sniff and sneeze. Grandfather would be indescribably delighted, go off into a merry chuckle, and cry:

“Tear it off, it has frozen on!”

They give the dogs a sniff of snuff too. Kashtanka sneezes, wriggles her head, and walks away offended. Eel does not sneeze, from politeness, but wags his tail. And the weather is glorious. The air is still, fresh, and transparent. The night is dark, but one can see the whole village with its white roofs and coils of smoke coming from the chimneys, the trees silvered with hoar frost, the snowdrifts. The whole sky spangled with gay twinkling stars, and the Milky Way is as distinct as though it had been washed and rubbed with snow for a holiday. . . .

Vanka sighed, dipped his pen, and went on writing:

“And yesterday I had a wigging . The master pulled me out into the yard by my hair, and whacked me with a boot-stretcher because I accidentally fell asleep while I was rocking their brat in the cradle. And a week ago the mistress told me to clean a herring, and I began from the tail end, and she took the herring and thrust its head in my face. The workmen laugh at me and send me to the tavern for vodka, and tell me to steal the master’s cucumbers for them, and the master beats me with anything that comes to hand. And there is nothing to eat. In the morning they give me bread, for dinner, porridge, and in the evening, bread again; but as for tea, or soup, the master and mistress gobble it all up themselves. And I am put to sleep in the passage, and when their wretched brat cries I get no sleep at all, but have to rock the cradle. Dear grandfather, show the divine mercy, take me away from here, home to the village. It’s more than I can bear. I bow down to your feet, and will pray to God for you for ever, take me away from here or I shall die.”

Vanka’s mouth worked, he rubbed his eyes with his black fist, and gave a sob.

“I will powder your snuff for you,” he went on. “I will pray for you, and if I do anything you can thrash me like Sidor’s goat. And if you think I’ve no job, then I will beg the steward for Christ’s sake to let me clean his boots, or I’ll go for a shepherd-boy instead of Fedka. Dear grandfather, it is more than I can bear, it’s simply no life at all. I wanted to run away to the village, but I have no boots, and I am afraid of the frost. When I grow up big I will take care of you for this, and not let anyone annoy you, and when you die I will pray for the rest of your soul, just as for my mammy’s.

Moscow is a big town. It’s all gentlemen’s houses, and there are lots of horses, but there are no sheep, and the dogs are not spiteful. The lads here don’t go out with the star , and they don’t let anyone go into the choir, and once I saw in a shop window fishing-hooks for sale, fitted ready with the line and for all sorts of fish, awfully good ones, there was even one hook that would hold a forty-pound sheat-fish. And I have seen shops where there are guns of all sorts, after the pattern of the master’s guns at home, so that I shouldn’t wonder if they are a hundred roubles each. . . . And in the butchers’ shops there are grouse and woodcocks and fish and hares, but the shopmen don’t say where they shoot them.

“Dear grandfather, when they have the Christmas tree at the big house, get me a gilt walnut , and put it away in the green trunk. Ask the young lady Olga Ignatyevna, say it’s for Vanka.”

Vanka gave a tremulous sigh, and again stared at the window. He remembered how his grandfather always went into the forest to get the Christmas tree for his master’s family, and took his grandson with him. It was a merry time! Grandfather made a noise in his throat, the forest crackled with the frost, and looking at them Vanka chortled too. Before chopping down the Christmas tree, grandfather would smoke a pipe, slowly take a pinch of snuff, and laugh at frozen Vanka. . . . The young fir trees, covered with hoar frost, stood motionless, waiting to see which of them was to die. Wherever one looked, a hare flew like an arrow over the snowdrifts. . . . Grandfather could not refrain from shouting: “Hold him, hold him . . . hold him! Ah, the bob-tailed devil!”

When he had cut down the Christmas tree, grandfather used to drag it to the big house, and there set to work to decorate it. . . . The young lady, who was Vanka’s favourite, Olga Ignatyevna, was the busiest of all. When Vanka’s mother Pelageya was alive, and a servant in the big house, Olga Ignatyevna used to give him goodies, and having nothing better to do, taught him to read and write, to count up to a hundred, and even to dance a quadrille. When Pelageya died, Vanka had been transferred to the servants’ kitchen to be with his grandfather, and from the kitchen to the shoemaker’s in Moscow.

“Do come, dear grandfather,” Vanka went on with his letter. “For Christ’s sake, I beg you, take me away. Have pity on an unhappy orphan like me; here everyone knocks me about, and I am fearfully hungry; I can’t tell you what misery it is, I am always crying. And the other day the master hit me on the head with a last, so that I fell down. My life is wretched, worse than any dog’s. . . . I send greetings to Alyona, one-eyed Yegorka, and the coachman, and don’t give my concertina to anyone. I remain, your grandson, Ivan Zhukov. Dear grandfather, do come.”

Vanka folded the sheet of writing-paper twice, and put it into an envelope he had bought the day before for a kopeck. . . . After thinking a little, he dipped the pen and wrote the address:

To grandfather in the village.

Then he scratched his head, thought a little, and added: Konstantin Makaritch. Glad that he had not been prevented from writing, he put on his cap and, without putting on his little greatcoat, ran out into the street as he was in his shirt. . . .

The shopmen at the butcher’s, whom he had questioned the day before, told him that letters were put in post-boxes, and from the boxes were carried about all over the earth in mailcarts with drunken drivers and ringing bells. Vanka ran to the nearest post-box, and thrust the precious letter in the slit. . . .

An hour later, lulled by sweet hopes, he was sound asleep. . . . He dreamed of the stove. On the stove was sitting his grandfather, swinging his bare legs, and reading the letter to the cooks. . . .

By the stove was Eel, wagging his tail.

Grateful thanks to Ms Constance Garnett and Project Gutenberg.