Anton Chekhov - The Party

7/28/2019 Anton Chekhov - The Party

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The party

Anton Chekhov



I

AFTER the festive dinner with its eight courseand its endless conversation, Olga Mihalovnwhose husband's name-day was being celebrated, went out into the garden. The duty osmiling and talking incessantly, the clatter othe crockery, the stupidity of the servants, th

long intervals between the courses, and thstays she had put on to conceal her conditiofrom the visitors, wearied her to exhaustionShe longed to get away from the house, to sit ithe shade and rest her heart with thoughts o

the baby which was to be born to her in anothetwo months. She was used to these thoughcoming to her as she turned to the left out othe big avenue into the narrow path. Here i

the thick shade of the plums and cherry-treethe dry branches used to scratch her neck anshoulders; a spider's web would settle on heface, and there would rise up in her mind thimage of a little creature of undetermined se

and undefined features, and it began to seem a



though it were not the spider's web that tickleher face and neck caressingly, but that littcreature. When, at the end of the path, a thi

wicker hurdle came into sight, and behind podgy beehives with tiled roofs; when in thmotionless, stagnant air there came a smell ohay and honey, and a soft buzzing of bees waaudible, then the little creature would tak

complete possession of Olga Mihalovna. Shused to sit down on a bench near the shantwoven of branches, and fall to thinking.

This time, too, she went on as far as the seat, sdown, and began thinking; but instead of thlittle creature there rose up in her imaginatiothe figures of the grown-up people whom shhad just left. She felt dreadfully uneasy tha

she, the hostess, had deserted her guests, anshe remembered how her husband, PyoDmitritch, and her uncle, Nikolay Nikolaitchhad argued at dinner about trial by jury, abouthe press, and about the higher education o



women. Her husband, as usual, argued in ordeto show off his Conservative ideas before hvisitors—and still more in order to disagre

with her uncle, whom he disliked. Her unccontradicted him and wrangled over everword he uttered, so as to show the companthat he, Uncle Nikolay Nikolaitch, still retainehis youthful freshness of spirit and fre

thinking in spite of his fifty-nine years. Antowards the end of dinner even Olga Mhalovna herself could not resist taking part anunskilfully attempting to defend universit

education for women—not that that educatiostood in need of her defence, but simply because she wanted to annoy her husband, whto her mind was unfair. The guests were wearied by this discussion, but they all thought

necessary to take part in it, and talked a greadeal, although none of them took any interein trial by jury or the higher education owomen. . . .



Olga Mihalovna was sitting on the nearest sidof the hurdle near the shanty. The sun was hidden behind the clouds. The trees and the a

were overcast as before rain, but in spite of thit was hot and stifling. The hay cut under thtrees on the previous day was lying ungathered, looking melancholy, with here and therepatch of colour from the faded flowers, an

from it came a heavy, sickly scent. It was stilThe other side of the hurdle there was a monotonous hum of bees. . . .

Suddenly she heard footsteps and voices; somone was coming along the path towards thbeehouse.

"How stifling it is!" said a feminine voic

"What do you think— is it going to rain, onot?"

"It is going to rain, my charmer, but not befornight," a very familiar male voice answere

languidly. "There will be a good rain."



Olga Mihalovna calculated that if she madhaste to hide in the shanty they would pass bwithout seeing her, and she would not have t

talk and to force herself to smile. She picked uher skirts, bent down and crept into the shantyAt once she felt upon her face, her neck, hearms, the hot air as heavy as steam. If it had nobeen for the stuffiness and the close smell of ry

bread, fennel, and brushwood, which prvented her from breathing freely, it would havbeen delightful to hide from her visitors herunder the thatched roof in the dusk, and t

think about the little creature. It was cosy anquiet.

"What a pretty spot!" said a feminine voice. "Lus sit here, Pyo

Dmitritch."

Olga Mihalovna began peeping through a cracbetween two branches. She saw her husbandPyotr Dmitritch, and Lubotchka Sheller, a gi

of seventeen who had not long left boarding



school. Pyotr Dmitritch, with his hat on thback of his head, languid and indolent fromhaving drunk so much at dinner, slouched b

the hurdle and raked the hay into a heap withis foot; Lubotchka, pink with the heat anpretty as ever, stood with her hands behinher, watching the lazy movements of his bihandsome person.

Olga Mihalovna knew that her husband waattractive to women, and did not like to see himwith them. There was nothing out of the way iPyotr Dmitritch's lazily raking together the hain order to sit down on it with Lubotchka anchatter to her of trivialities; there was nothinout of the way, either, in pretty Lubotchkalooking at him with her soft eyes; but yet Olg

Mihalovna felt vexed with her husband anfrightened and pleased that she could listen tthem.



"Sit down, enchantress," said Pyotr Dmitritchsinking down on the hay and stretching. "Thatright. Come, tell me something."

"What next! If I begin telling you anything yowill go to sleep."

"Me go to sleep? Allah forbid! Can I go to slee

while eyes like yours are watching me?"

In her husband's words, and in the fact that hwas lolling with his hat on the back of his heain the presence of a lady, there was nothing ou

of the way either. He was spoilt by womenknew that they found him attractive, and haadopted with them a special tone which everone said suited him. With Lubotchka he behaved as with all women. But, all the sam

Olga Mihalovna was jealous.

"Tell me, please," said Lubotchka, after a briesilence—"is it true that you are to be tried fosomething?"



"I? Yes, I am . . . numbered among the trangressors, my charmer."

"But what for?"

"For nothing, but just . . . it's chiefly a questioof politics," yawned Pyotr Dmitritch—"the antagonisms of Left and Right. I, an obscuranti

and reactionary, ventured in an official paper tmake use of an expression offensive in the eyeof such immaculate Gladstones as VladimPavlovitch Vladimirov and our local justice othe peace—Kuzma Grigoritch Vostryakov."

Pytor Dmitritch yawned again and went on:

"And it is the way with us that you may express disapproval of the sun or the moon, o

anything you like, but God preserve you fromtouching the Liberals! Heaven forbid! A Liberais like the poisonous dry fungus which coveryou with a cloud of dust if you accidentalltouch it with your finger."



"What happened to you?"

"Nothing particular. The whole flare-up startefrom the merest trifle. A teacher, a detestabperson of clerical associations, hands tVostryakov a petition against a tavern-keepecharging him with insulting language and behaviour in a public place. Everything showe

that both the teacher and the tavern-keepewere drunk as cobblers, and that they behaveequally badly. If there had been insulting behaviour, the insult had anyway been mutuaVostryakov ought to have fined them both forbreach of the peace and have turned them ouof the court—that is all. But that's not our waof doing things. With us what stands first is nothe person—not the fact itself, but the trade

mark and label. However great a rascal teacher may be, he is always in the right because he is a teacher; a tavern-keeper is alwayin the wrong because he is a tavern-keeper ana money-grubber. Vostryakov placed the tav



ern-keeper under arrest. The man appealed tthe Circuit Court; the Circuit Court triumphantly upheld Vostryakov's decision. Well,

stuck to my own opinion. . . . Got a little hot. . That was all."

Pyotr Dmitritch spoke calmly with carelesirony. In reality the trial that was hanging ove

him worried him extremely. Olga Mihalovnremembered how on his return from the unfotunate session he had tried to conceal from hhousehold how troubled he was, and how disatisfied with himself. As an intelligent man hcould not help feeling that he had gone too fain expressing his disagreement; and how muclying had been needful to conceal that feelinfrom himself and from others! How many un

necessary conversations there had been! Howmuch grumbling and insincere laughter at whawas not laughable! When he learned that hwas to be brought up before the Court, hseemed at once harassed and depressed; h



began to sleep badly, stood oftener than ever athe windows, drumming on the panes with hfingers. And he was ashamed to let his wife se

that he was worried, and it vexed her.

"They say you have been in the province oPoltava?" Lubotchka questioned him.

"Yes," answered Pyotr Dmitritch. "I came bacthe day before yesterday."

"I expect it is very nice there."

"Yes, it is very nice, very nice indeed; in fact,arrived just in time for the haymaking, I mutell you, and in the Ukraine the haymaking the most poetical moment of the year. Here whave a big house, a big garden, a lot of servant

and a lot going on, so that you don't see thhaymaking; here it all passes unnoticed. Therat the farm, I have a meadow of forty-five acreas flat as my hand. You can see the men mowing from any window you stand at. They ar



mowing in the meadow, they are mowing ithe garden. There are no visitors, no fuss nohurry either, so that you can't help seeing, fee

ing, hearing nothing but the haymaking. Theris a smell of hay indoors and outdoors. Therethe sound of the scythes from sunrise to sunseAltogether Little Russia is a charming countryWould you believe it, when I was drinking wa

ter from the rustic wells and filthy vodka isome Jew's tavern, when on quiet evenings thstrains of the Little Russian fiddle and the tambourines reached me, I was tempted by a fasc

nating idea—to settle down on my place anlive there as long as I chose, far away from Cicuit Courts, intellectual conversations, philosophizing women, long dinners. . . ."

Pyotr Dmitritch was not lying. He was unhappy and really longed to rest. And he havisited his Poltava property simply to avoiseeing his study, his servants, his acquaintan



ces, and everything that could remind him ohis wounded vanity and his mistakes.

Lubotchka suddenly jumped up and waved hehands about in horror.

"Oh! A bee, a bee!" she shrieked. "It will sting!"

"Nonsense; it won't sting," said PyoDmitritch. "What a coward you are!"

"No, no, no," cried Lubotchka; and lookinround at the bees, she walked rapidly back.

Pyotr Dmitritch walked away after her, lookinat her with a softened and melancholy face. Hwas probably thinking, as he looked at her, ohis farm, of solitude, and—who knows?—

perhaps he was even thinking how snug ancosy life would be at the farm if his wife habeen this girl—young, pure, fresh, not corupted by higher education, not with child. . .



When the sound of their footsteps had dieaway, Olga Mihalovna came out of the shantand turned towards the house. She wanted t

cry. She was by now acutely jealous. She coulunderstand that her husband was worried, disatisfied with himself and ashamed, and whepeople are ashamed they hold aloof, above afrom those nearest to them, and are unreserve

with strangers; she could understand, also, thashe had nothing to fear from Lubotchka ofrom those women who were now drinkincoffee indoors. But everything in general wa

terrible, incomprehensible, and it alreadseemed to Olga Mihalovna that Pyotr Dmitritconly half belonged to her.

"He has no right to do it!" she muttered, tryin

to formulate her jealousy and her vexation wither husband. "He has no right at all. I will tehim so plainly!"

She made up her mind to find her husband a

once and tell him all about it: it was disgustin



absolutely disgusting, that he was attractive tother women and sought their admiration athough it were some heavenly manna; it wa

unjust and dishonourable that he should givto others what belonged by right to his wifthat he should hide his soul and his consciencfrom his wife to reveal them to the first prettface he came across. What harm had his wif

done him? How was she to blame? Long agshe had been sickened by his lying: he was foever posing, flirting, saying what he did nothink, and trying to seem different from wha

he was and what he ought to be. Why this fasity? Was it seemly in a decent man? If he liehe was demeaning himself and those to whomhe lied, and slighting what he lied about. Coulhe not understand that if he swaggered an

posed at the judicial table, or held forth at dinner on the prerogatives of Government, that hsimply to provoke her uncle, was showinthereby that he had not a ha'p'orth of respe



for the Court, or himself, or any of the peopwho were listening and looking at him?

Coming out into the big avenue, Olga Mhalovna assumed an expression of face athough she had just gone away to look aftesome domestic matter. In the verandah the gentlemen were drinking liqueur and eatin

strawberries: one of them, the Examining Magistrate—a stout elderly man, blagueur and wit—must have been telling some rather free anedote, for, seeing their hostess, he suddenlclapped his hands over his fat lips, rolled heyes, and sat down. Olga Mihalovna did nolike the local officials. She did not care for theclumsy, ceremonious wives, their scandamongering, their frequent visits, their flattery o

her husband, whom they all hated. Now, whethey were drinking, were replete with food anshowed no signs of going away, she felt thepresence an agonizing weariness; but not tappear impolite, she smiled cordially to th



Magistrate, and shook her finger at him. Shwalked across the dining-room and drawingroom smiling, and looking as though she ha

gone to give some order and make some arangement. "God grant no one stops me," shthought, but she forced herself to stop in thdrawing-room to listen from politeness to young man who was sitting at the piano play

ing: after standing for a minute, she cried"Bravo, bravo, M. Georges!" and clapping hehands twice, she went on.

She found her husband in his study. He wasitting at the table, thinking of something. Hface looked stern, thoughtful, and guilty. Thwas not the same Pyotr Dmitritch who habeen arguing at dinner and whom his gues

knew, but a different man—wearied, feelinguilty and dissatisfied with himself, whom nobody knew but his wife. He must have come tthe study to get cigarettes. Before him lay aopen cigarette-case full of cigarettes, and one o



his hands was in the table drawer; he hapaused and sunk into thought as he was takinthe cigarettes.

Olga Mihalovna felt sorry for him. It was aclear as day that this man was harassed, coulfind no rest, and was perhaps struggling withimself. Olga Mihalovna went up to the table i

silence: wanting to show that she had forgottethe argument at dinner and was not cross, shshut the cigarette-case and put it in her huband's coat pocket.

"What should I say to him?" she wondered; shall say that lying is like a forest—the furtheone goes into it the more difficult it is to get ouof it. I will say to him, 'You have been carrie

away by the false part you are playing; yohave insulted people who were attached to yoand have done you no harm. Go and apologizto them, laugh at yourself, and you will feebetter. And if you want peace and solitude, le

us go away together.'"



Meeting his wife's gaze, Pyotr Dmitritch's facimmediately assumed the expression it haworn at dinner and in the garden—indifferen

and slightly ironical. He yawned and got up.

"It's past five," he said, looking at his watch. "our visitors are merciful and leave us at eleveneven then we have another six hours of it. It's

cheerful prospect, there's no denying!"

And whistling something, he walked slowlout of the study with his usual dignified gaiShe could hear him with dignified firmnes

cross the dining-room, then the drawing-roomlaugh with dignified assurance, and say to thyoung man who was playing, "Bravo! bravoSoon his footsteps died away: he must hav

gone out into the garden. And now not jeaousy, not vexation, but real hatred of his foosteps, his insincere laugh and voice, took posession of Olga Mihalovna. She went to thwindow and looked out into the garden. Pyo

Dmitritch was already walking along the av



nue. Putting one hand in his pocket and snapping the fingers of the other, he walked witconfident swinging steps, throwing his hea

back a little, and looking as though he wervery well satisfied with himself, with his dinner, with his digestion, and with nature. . . .

Two little schoolboys, the children of Madam

Tchizhevsky, who had only just arrived, madtheir appearance in the avenue, accompanieby their tutor, a student wearing a white tunand very narrow trousers. When they reachePyotr Dmitritch, the boys and the studenstopped, and probably congratulated him ohis name-day. With a graceful swing of hshoulders, he patted the children on thecheeks, and carelessly offered the student h

hand without looking at him. The student muhave praised the weather and compared it witthe climate of Petersburg, for Pyotr Dmitritcsaid in a loud voice, in a tone as though h



were not speaking to a guest, but to an usher othe court or a witness:

"What! It's cold in Petersburg? And here, mgood sir, we have a salubrious atmosphere anthe fruits of the earth in abundance. Eh? What?

And thrusting one hand in his pocket an

snapping the fingers of the other, he walked onTill he had disappeared behind the nut busheOlga Mihalovna watched the back of his heain perplexity. How had this man of thirty-foucome by the dignified deportment of a genera

How had he come by that impressive, eleganmanner? Where had he got that vibration oauthority in his voice? Where had he got thes"what's," "to be sure's," and "my good sir's"?

Olga Mihalovna remembered how in the firmonths of her marriage she had felt dreary ahome alone and had driven into the town to thCircuit Court, at which Pyotr Dmitritch ha

sometimes presided in place of her godfathe



Count Alexey Petrovitch. In the presidentichair, wearing his uniform and a chain on hbreast, he was completely changed. Stately ge

tures, a voice of thunder, "what," "to be surecareless tones. . . . Everything, all that was odinary and human, all that was individual anpersonal to himself that Olga Mihalovna waaccustomed to seeing in him at home, vanishe

in grandeur, and in the presidential chair thersat not Pyotr Dmitritch, but another man whomevery one called Mr. President. This consciouness of power prevented him from sitting sti

in his place, and he seized every opportunity tring his bell, to glance sternly at the public, tshout. . . . Where had he got his short-sight anhis deafness when he suddenly began to seand hear with difficulty, and, frowning majest

cally, insisted on people speaking louder ancoming closer to the table? From the height ohis grandeur he could hardly distinguish faceor sounds, so that it seemed that if Olga Mhalovna herself had gone up to him he woul



have shouted even to her, "Your name?" Peaant witnesses he addressed familiarly, hshouted at the public so that his voice could b

heard even in the street, and behaved incredbly with the lawyers. If a lawyer had to speato him, Pyotr Dmitritch, turning a little awafrom him, looked with half-closed eyes at thceiling, meaning to signify thereby that th

lawyer was utterly superfluous and that he waneither recognizing him nor listening to him; a badly-dressed lawyer spoke, Pyotr Dmitritcpricked up his ears and looked the man up an

down with a sarcastic, annihilating stare athough to say: "Queer sort of lawyers nowadays!"

"What do you mean by that?" he would inte

rupt.

If a would-be eloquent lawyer mispronouncea foreign word, saying, for instance, "factitiouinstead of "fictitious," Pyotr Dmitritch brigh

ened up at once and asked, "What? How? Fact



tious? What does that mean?" and then observed impressively: "Don't make use of wordyou do not understand." And the lawyer, fin

ishing his speech, would walk away from thtable, red and perspiring, while PyoDmitritch; with a self-satisfied smile, woullean back in his chair triumphant. In his manner with the lawyers he imitated Count Alexe

Petrovitch a little, but when the latter said, foinstance, "Counsel for the defence, you keequiet for a little!" it sounded paternally goodnatured and natural, while the same words i

Pyotr Dmitritch's mouth were rude and artifcial.

I I

There were sounds of applause. The younman had finished playingOlga Mihalovna remembered her guests anhurried into the drawing-room.



"I have so enjoyed your playing," she said, going up to the piano. "I have so enjoyed it. Yohave a wonderful talent! But don't you thin

our piano's out of tune?"

At that moment the two schoolboys walkeinto the room, accompanied by the student.

"My goodness! Mitya and Kolya," Olga Mhalovna drawled joyfully, going to meet them"How big they have grown! One would noknow you! But where is your mamma?"

"I congratulate you on the name-day," the student began in free-and-easy tone, "and I wish you all happness. EkaterinAndreyevna sends her congratulations an

begs you to excuse heShe is not very well."

"How unkind of her! I have been expecting heall day. Is it long since you left Petersburg?



Olga Mihalovna asked the student. "What kinof weather have you there now?" And withouwaiting for an answer, she looked cordially a

the schoolboys and repeated:

"How tall they have grown! It is not long sincthey used to come with their nurse, and theare at school already! The old grow older whil

the young grow up. . . . Have you had dinner?

"Oh, please don't trouble!" said the student.

"Why, you have not had dinner?"

"For goodness' sake, don't trouble!"

"But I suppose you are hungry?" Olga Mhalovna said it in a harsh, rude voice, with im

patience and vexation—it escaped her unawares, but at once she coughed, smiled, anflushed crimson. "How tall they have grownshe said softly.



"Please don't trouble!" the student said oncmore.

The student begged her not to trouble; the boysaid nothing; obviously all three of them werhungry. Olga Mihalovna took them into thdining-room and told Vassily to lay the table.

"How unkind of your mamma!" she said as shmade them sit down. "She has quite forgotteme. Unkind, unkind, unkind . . . you must teher so. What are you studying?" she asked thstudent.

"Medicine."

"Well, I have a weakness for doctors, onlfancy. I am very sorry my husband is not a do

tor. What courage any one must have to peform an operation or dissect a corpse, for instance! Horrible! Aren't you frightened? I believe I should die of terror! Of course, yodrink vodka?"



"Please don't trouble."

"After your journey you must have somethinto drink. Though I am a woman, even I drinsometimes. And Mitya and Kolya will drinMalaga. It's not a strong wine; you need not bafraid of it. What fine fellows they are, reallyThey'll be thinking of getting married next."

Olga Mihalovna talked without ceasing; shknew by experience that when she had guesto entertain it was far easier and more comforable to talk than to listen. When you talk ther

is no need to strain your attention to think oanswers to questions, and to change your expression of face. But unawares she asked thstudent a serious question; the student began

lengthy speech and she was forced to listenThe student knew that she had once been at thUniversity, and so tried to seem a serious peson as he talked to her.



"What subject are you studying?" she askedforgetting that she had already put that quetion to him.

"Medicine."

Olga Mihalovna now remembered that she habeen away from the ladies for a long while.

"Yes? Then I suppose you are going to be a dotor?" she said, getting up. "That's splendid. I amsorry I did not go in for medicine myself. Syou will finish your dinner here, gentlemen

and then come into the garden. I will introducyou to the young ladies."

She went out and glanced at her watch: it wafive minutes to six. And she wondered that th

time had gone so slowly, and thought with horor that there were six more hours before midnight, when the party would break up. Howcould she get through those six hours? Wha



phrases could she utter? How should she behave to her husband?

There was not a soul in the drawing-room or othe verandah. All the guests were saunterinabout the garden.

"I shall have to suggest a walk in the birchwoo

before tea, or else a row in the boats," thoughOlga Mihalovna, hurrying to the croqueground, from which came the sounds of voiceand laughter.

"And sit the old people down to vint. . . ." Shmet Grigory the footman coming from the croquet ground with empty bottles.

"Where are the ladies?" she asked.

"Among the raspberry-bushes. The masterthere, too."

"Oh, good heavens!" some one on the croqu

lawn shouted with exasperation. "I have tol



you a thousand times over! To know the Bugarians you must see them! You can't judgfrom the papers!"

Either because of the outburst or for some othereason, Olga Mihalovna was suddenly aware oa terrible weakness all over, especially in helegs and in her shoulders. She felt she could no

bear to speak, to listen, or to move.

"Grigory," she said faintly and with an effor"when you have to serve tea or anything, pleasdon't appeal to me, don't ask me anything

don't speak of anything. . . . Do it all yourseland . . . and don't make a noise with your feet,entreat you. . . . I can't, because . . ."

Without finishing, she walked on towards th

croquet lawn, but on the way she thought othe ladies, and turned towards the raspberrybushes. The sky, the air, and the trees lookegloomy again and threatened rain; it was ho

and stifling. An immense flock of crows, fore



seeing a storm, flew cawing over the gardenThe paths were more overgrown, darker, annarrower as they got nearer the kitchen garden

In one of them, buried in a thick tangle of wilpear, crab-apple, sorrel, young oaks, and hopbine, clouds of tiny black flies swarmed rounOlga Mihalovna. She covered her face with hehands and began forcing herself to think of th

little creature . . . . There floated through heimagination the figures of Grigory, MityKolya, the faces of the peasants who had comin the morning to present their congratulations

She heard footsteps, and she opened her eyeUncle Nikolay Nikolaitch was coming rapidltowards her.

"It's you, dear? I am very glad . . ." he beganbreathless. "A couple of words. . . ." He moppewith his handkerchief his red shaven chin, thesuddenly stepped back a pace, flung up hhands and opened his eyes wide. "My dear gir

how long is this going on?" he said rapidly



spluttering. "I ask you: is there no limit to it?say nothing of the demoralizing effect of hmartinet views on all around him, of the wa

he insults all that is sacred and best in me anin every honest thinking man—I will say nothing about that, but he might at least behavdecently! Why, he shouts, he bellows, givehimself airs, poses as a sort of Bonaparte, doe

not let one say a word. . . . I don't know whthe devil's the matter with him! These lordlgestures, this condescending tone; and laughing like a general! Who is he, allow me to as

you? I ask you, who is he? The husband of hwife, with a few paltry acres and the rank of titular who has had the luck to marry an heiess! An upstart and a junker , like so many others! A type out of Shtchedrin! Upon my word

it's either that he's suffering from megalomanior that old rat in his dotage, Count Alexey Perovitch, is right when he says that children anyoung people are a long time growing u



nowadays, and go on playing they are cabmeand generals till they are forty!"

"That's true, that's true," Olga Mihalovna asented. "Let me pass."

"Now just consider: what is it leading to?" heuncle went on, barring her way. "How will th

playing at being a general and a Conservativend? Already he has got into trouble! Yes, tstand his trial! I am very glad of it! That's whahis noise and shouting has brought him to—tstand in the prisoner's dock. And it's not a

though it were the Circuit Court or somethingit's the Central Court! Nothing worse could bimagined, I think! And then he has quarrellewith every one! He is celebrating his name-day

and look, Vostryakov's not here, nor Yahontovnor Vladimirov, nor Shevud, nor the Count. . There is no one, I imagine, more Conservativthan Count Alexey Petrovitch, yet even he hanot come. And he never will come again. H

won't come, you will see!"



"My God! but what has it to do with measked Olga Mihalovna.

"What has it to do with you? Why, you are hwife! You are clever, you have had a universiteducation, and it was in your power to makhim an honest worker!"

"At the lectures I went to they did not teach uhow to influence tiresome people. It seems athough I should have to apologize to all of yofor having been at the University," said OlgMihalovna sharply. "Listen, uncle. If peop

played the same scales over and over again thwhole day long in your hearing, you wouldnbe able to sit still and listen, but would ruaway. I hear the same thing over again for day

together all the year round. You must have piton me at last."

Her uncle pulled a very long face, then lookeat her searchingly and twisted his lips into

mocking smile.



"So that's how it is," he piped in a voice like aold woman's. "I beg your pardon!" he said, anmade a ceremonious bow. "If you have falle

under his influence yourself, and have abandoned your convictions, you should have saiso before. I beg your pardon!"

"Yes, I have abandoned my convictions," sh

cried. "There; make the most of it!"

"I beg your pardon!"

Her uncle for the last time made her a ceremo

nious bow, a little on one side, and, shrinkininto himself, made a scrape with his foot anwalked back.

"Idiot!" thought Olga Mihalovna. "I hope h

will go home."

She found the ladies and the young peopamong the raspberries in the kitchen gardenSome were eating raspberries; others, tired o



eating raspberries, were strolling about thstrawberry beds or foraging among the sugapeas. A little on one side of the raspberry bed

near a branching appletree propped up bposts which had been pulled out of an olfence, Pyotr Dmitritch was mowing the grasHis hair was falling over his forehead, his cravat was untied. His watch-chain was hangin

loose. Every step and every swing of the scythshowed skill and the possession of immensphysical strength. Near him were standinLubotchka and the daughters of a neighbou

Colonel Bukryeev—two anaemic and unhealthily stout fair girls, Natalya and Valentina, or, athey were always called, Nata and Vata, botwearing white frocks and strikingly like eacother. Pyotr Dmitritch was teaching them t

mow.

"It's very simple," he said. "You have only tknow how to hold the scythe and not to get tohot over it—that is, not to use more force tha



is necessary! Like this. . . . Wouldn't you like ttry?" he said, offering the scythe to Lubotchk"Come!"

Lubotchka took the scythe clumsily, blushecrimson, and laughed.

"Don't be afraid, Lubov Alexandrovna!" crie

Olga Mihalovna, loud enough for all the ladieto hear that she was with them. "Don't bafraid! You must learn! If you marry a Tostoyan he will make you mow."

Lubotchka raised the scythe, but began laughing again, and, helpless with laughter, let go oit at once. She was ashamed and pleased at being talked to as though grown up. Nata, with cold, serious face, with no trace of smiling o

shyness, took the scythe, swung it and caught in the grass; Vata, also without a smile, as coland serious as her sister, took the scythe, ansilently thrust it into the earth. Having don



this, the two sisters linked arms and walked isilence to the raspberries.

Pyotr Dmitritch laughed and played about lika boy, and this childish, frolicsome mood iwhich he became exceedingly good-naturesuited him far better than any other. Olga Mhalovna loved him when he was like that. Bu

his boyishness did not usually last long. It dinot this time; after playing with the scythe, hfor some reason thought it necessary to take serious tone about it.

"When I am mowing, I feel, do you knowhealthier and more normal," he said. "If I werforced to confine myself to an intellectual lifebelieve I should go out of my mind. I feel that

was not born to be a man of culture! I ought tmow, plough, sow, drive out the horses."

And Pyotr Dmitritch began a conversation witthe ladies about the advantages of physic

labour, about culture, and then about the pern



cious effects of money, of property. Listening ther husband, Olga Mihalovna, for some reasonthought of her dowry.

"And the time will come, I suppose," shthought, "when he will not forgive me for beinricher than he. He is proud and vain. Maybe hwill hate me because he owes so much to me."

She stopped near Colonel Bukryeev, who waeating raspberries and also taking part in thconversation.

"Come," he said, making room for Olga Mhalovna and Pyotr Dmitritch. "The ripest arhere. . . . And so, according to Proudhon," hwent on, raising his voice, "property is robberyBut I must confess I don't believe in Proudhon

and don't consider him a philosopher. ThFrench are not authorities, to my thinking—God bless them!"



"Well, as for Proudhons and Buckles and threst of them, I am weak in that departmentsaid Pyotr Dmitritch. "For philosophy you mu

apply to my wife. She has been at Universitlectures and knows all your Schopenhauerand Proudhons by heart. . . ."

Olga Mihalovna felt bored again. She walke

again along a little path by apple and peatrees, and looked again as though she was osome very important errand. She reached thgardener's cottage. In the doorway the gadener's wife, Varvara, was sitting together wither four little children with big shaven headVarvara, too, was with child and expecting tbe confined on Elijah's Day. After greeting heOlga Mihalovna looked at her and the childre

in silence and asked:

"Well, how do you feel?"

"Oh, all right. . . ."



A silence followed. The two women seemed tunderstand each other without words.

"It's dreadful having one's first baby," said OlgMihalovna after a moment's thought. "I keefeeling as though I shall not get through it, athough I shall die."

"I fancied that, too, but here I am alive. One haall sorts of fancies."

Varvara, who was just going to have her fifthlooked down a little on her mistress from th

height of her experience and spoke in a rathedidactic tone, and Olga Mihalovna could nohelp feeling her authority; she would havliked to have talked of her fears, of the child, oher sensations, but she was afraid it migh

strike Varvara as naïve and trivial. And shwaited in silence for Varvara to say somethinherself.



"Olya, we are going indoors," Pyotr Dmitritccalled from the raspberries.

Olga Mihalovna liked being silent, waiting anwatching Varvara. She would have been readto stay like that till night without speaking ohaving any duty to perform. But she had to gShe had hardly left the cottage whe

Lubotchka, Nata, and Vata came running tmeet her. The sisters stopped short abruptly couple of yards away; Lubotchka ran right uto her and flung herself on her neck.

"You dear, darling, precious," she said, kissinher face and her neck. "Let us go and have teon the island!"

"On the island, on the island!" said the precisel

similar Nata anVata, both at once, without a smile.

"But it's going to rain, my dears."



"It's not, it's not," cried Lubotchka with a woebegone face. "They've all agreed to go. Deadarling!"

"They are all getting ready to have tea on thisland," said Pyotr Dmitritch, coming up. "Seto arranging things. . . . We will all go in thboats, and the samovars and all the rest of

must be sent in the carriage with the servants."

He walked beside his wife and gave her harm. Olga Mihalovna had a desire to say somthing disagreeable to her husband, somethin

biting, even about her dowry perhaps—thcrueller the better, she felt. She thought a littland said:

"Why is it Count Alexey Petrovitch hasn

come? What a pity!"

"I am very glad he hasn't come," said PyoDmitritch, lying. "I'm sick to death of that ollunatic."



"But yet before dinner you were expecting himso eagerly!"

I I I

Half an hour later all the guests were crowdinon the bank near the pile to which the boawere fastened. They were all talking and laugh

ing, and were in such excitement and commotion that they could hardly get into the boatThree boats were crammed with passengerwhile two stood empty. The keys for unfastening these two boats had been somehow mislaidand messengers were continually running fromthe river to the house to look for them. Somsaid Grigory had the keys, others that the bailihad them, while others suggested sending for

blacksmith and breaking the padlocks. And atalked at once, interrupting and shouting onanother down. Pyotr Dmitritch paced impatiently to and fro on the bank, shouting:



"What the devil's the meaning of it! The keyought always to be lying in the hall windowWho has dared to take them away? The baili

can get a boat of his own if he wants one!"

At last the keys were found. Then it appearethat two oars were missing. Again there was great hullabaloo. Pyotr Dmitritch, who wa

weary of pacing about the bank, jumped into long, narrow boat hollowed out of the trunk oa poplar, and, lurching from side to side analmost falling into the water, pushed off fromthe bank. The other boats followed him onafter another, amid loud laughter and thshrieks of the young ladies.

The white cloudy sky, the trees on the rive

side, the boats with the people in them, and thoars, were reflected in the water as in a mirrounder the boats, far away below in the bottomless depths, was a second sky with the birdflying across it. The bank on which the hous

and gardens stood was high, steep, and cov



ered with trees; on the other, which was sloping, stretched broad green water-meadowwith sheets of water glistening in them. Th

boats had floated a hundred yards when, behind the mournfully drooping willows on thsloping banks, huts and a herd of cows caminto sight; they began to hear songs, drunkeshouts, and the strains of a concertina.

Here and there on the river fishing-boats werscattered about, setting their nets for the nighIn one of these boats was the festive partyplaying on home-made violins and violoncelos.

Olga Mihalovna was sitting at the rudder; shwas smiling affably and talking a great deal t

entertain her visitors, while she glanced stealthily at her husband. He was ahead of them alstanding up punting with one oar. The lighsharp-nosed canoe, which all the guests callethe "death-trap"—while Pyotr Dmitritch, fo

some reason, called it Penderaklia—flew alon



quickly; it had a brisk, crafty expression, athough it hated its heavy occupant and walooking out for a favourable moment to glid

away from under his feet. Olga Mihalovna keplooking at her husband, and she loathed hgood looks which attracted every one, the bacof his head, his attitude, his familiar mannewith women; she hated all the women sitting i

the boat with her, was jealous, and at the samtime was trembling every minute in terror thathe frail craft would upset and cause an accdent.

"Take care, Pyotr!" she cried, while her heafluttered with terro"Sit down! We believe in your courage withouall that!"

She was worried, too, by the people who werin the boat with her. They were all ordinargood sort of people like thousands of otherbut now each one of them struck her as excep

tional and evil. In each one of them she saw



nothing but falsity. "That young man," shthought, "rowing, in gold-rimmed spectaclewith chestnut hair and a nice-looking beard: h

is a mamma's darling, rich, and well-fed, analways fortunate, and every one considers himan honourable, free-thinking, advanced manIt's not a year since he left the University ancame to live in the district, but he already talk

of himself as 'we active members of the Zemstvo.' But in another year he will be bored likso many others and go off to Petersburg, and tjustify running away, will tell every one tha

the Zemstvos are good-for-nothing, and that hhas been deceived in them. While from thother boat his young wife keeps her eyes fixeon him, and believes that he is 'an active member of the Zemstvo,' just as in a year she wi

believe that the Zemstvo is good-for-nothinAnd that stout, carefully shaven gentleman ithe straw hat with the broad ribbon, with aexpensive cigar in his mouth: he is fond of saying, 'It is time to put away dreams and set t



work!' He has Yorkshire pigs, Butler's hiverape-seed, pine-apples, a dairy, a cheese fatory, Italian bookkeeping by double entry; bu

every summer he sells his timber and morgages part of his land to spend the autumwith his mistress in the Crimea. And thereUncle Nikolay Nikolaitch, who has quarrellewith Pyotr Dmitritch, and yet for some reaso

does not go home."

Olga Mihalovna looked at the other boats, anthere, too, she saw only uninteresting, queecreatures, affected or stupid people. Shthought of all the people she knew in the ditrict, and could not remember one person owhom one could say or think anything goodThey all seemed to her mediocre, insipid, unin

telligent, narrow, false, heartless; they all saiwhat they did not think, and did what they dinot want to. Dreariness and despair were stfling her; she longed to leave off smiling, t



leap up and cry out, "I am sick of you," anthen jump out and swim to the bank.

"I say, let's take Pyotr Dmitritch in tow!" somone shouted.

"In tow, in tow!" the others chimed in. "OlgMihalovna, take your husband in tow."

To take him in tow, Olga Mihalovna, who wasteering, had to seize the right moment and tcatch bold of his boat by the chain at the beakWhen she bent over to the chain Pyo

Dmitritch frowned and looked at her in alarm.

"I hope you won't catch cold," he said.

"If you are uneasy about me and the child, wh

do you torment me?" thought Olga Mihalovna

Pyotr Dmitritch acknowledged himself vanquished, and, not caring to be towed, jumpefrom the Penderaklia into the boat which wa

overful already, and jumped so carelessly tha



the boat lurched violently, and every one crieout in terror.

"He did that to please the ladies," thought OlgMihalovna; "he knows it's charming." Hehands and feet began trembling, as she supposed, from boredom, vexation from the straiof smiling and the discomfort she felt all ove

her body. And to conceal this trembling fromher guests, she tried to talk more loudly, tlaugh, to move.

"If I suddenly begin to cry," she thought,

shall say I have toothache. . . ."

But at last the boats reached the "Island oGood Hope," as they called the peninsuformed by a bend in the river at an acute angl

covered with a copse of old birch-trees, oakwillows, and poplars. The tables were alreadlaid under the trees; the samovars were smoking, and Vassily and Grigory, in their swallow

tails and white knitted gloves, were alread



busy with the tea-things. On the other bankopposite the "Island of Good Hope," therstood the carriages which had come with th

provisions. The baskets and parcels of provsions were carried across to the island in a littboat like the Penderaklia. The footmen, thcoachmen, and even the peasant who was siting in the boat, had the solemn expression b

fitting a name-day such as one only sees ichildren and servants.

While Olga Mihalovna was making the tea anpouring out the first glasses, the visitors werbusy with the liqueurs and sweet things. Thethere was the general commotion usual at pinics over drinking tea, very wearisome anexhausting for the hostess. Grigory and Vassil

had hardly had time to take the glasses rounbefore hands were being stretched out to OlgMihalovna with empty glasses. One asked fono sugar, another wanted it stronger, anotheweak, a fourth declined another glass. And a



this Olga Mihalovna had to remember, anthen to call, "Ivan Petrovitch, is it without sugafor you?" or, "Gentlemen, which of you wante

it weak?" But the guest who had asked foweak tea, or no sugar, had by now forgotten iand, absorbed in agreeable conversation, toothe first glass that came. Depressed-lookinfigures wandered like shadows at a little di

tance from the table, pretending to look fomushrooms in the grass, or reading the labeon the boxes—these were those for whom therwere not glasses enough. "Have you had tea

Olga Mihalovna kept asking, and the guest saddressed begged her not to trouble, and said"I will wait," though it would have suited hebetter for the visitors not to wait but to makhaste.

Some, absorbed in conversation, drank their teslowly, keeping their glasses for half an houothers, especially some who had drunk a goodeal at dinner, would not leave the table, an



kept on drinking glass after glass, so that OlgMihalovna scarcely had time to fill them. Onjocular young man sipped his tea through

lump of sugar, and kept saying, "Sinful mathat I am, I love to indulge myself with thChinese herb." He kept asking with a heavsigh: "Another tiny dish of tea more, if yoplease." He drank a great deal, nibbled h

sugar, and thought it all very amusing anoriginal, and imagined that he was doing clever imitation of a Russian merchant. None othem understood that these trifles were agoniz

ing to their hostess, and, indeed, it was hard tunderstand it, as Olga Mihalovna went on athe time smiling affably and talking nonsense.

But she felt ill. . . . She was irritated by th

crowd of people, the laughter, the questionthe jocular young man, the footmen harasseand run off their legs, the children who hunround the table; she was irritated at Vata's being like Nata, at Kolya's being like Mitya, s



that one could not tell which of them had hatea and which of them had not. She felt that hesmile of forced affability was passing into a

expression of anger, and she felt every minutas though she would burst into tears.

"Rain, my friends," cried some one.

Every one looked at the sky.

"Yes, it really is rain . . ." Pyotr Dmitritch asented, and wiped his cheek.

Only a few drops were falling from the sky—the real rain had not begun yet; but the company abandoned their tea and made haste tget off. At first they all wanted to drive home ithe carriages, but changed their minds an

made for the boats. On the pretext that she hato hasten home to give directions about thsupper, Olga Mihalovna asked to be excusefor leaving the others, and went home in thcarriage.



When she got into the carriage, she first of alet her face rest from smiling. With an angrface she drove through the village, and with a

angry face acknowledged the bows of the peaants she met. When she got home, she went tthe bedroom by the back way and lay down oher husband's bed.

"Merciful God!" she whispered. "What is all thhard labour for? Why do all these people husteach other here and pretend that they are enjoying themselves? Why do I smile and lie?don't understand it."

She heard steps and voices. The visitors hacome back.

"Let them come," thought Olga Mihalovna;

shall lie a little longer."

But a maid-servant came and said:

"Marya Grigoryevna is going, madam."



Olga Mihalovna jumped up, tidied her hair anhurried out of the room.

"Marya Grigoryevna, what is the meaning othis?" she began in an injured voice, going tmeet Marya Grigoryevna. "Why are you isuch a hurry?"

"I can't help it, darling! I've stayed too long as is; my children are expecting me home."

"It's too bad of you! Why didn't you bring youchildren with you?"

"If you will let me, dear, I will bring them osome ordinary day, but to-day . . ."

"Oh, please do," Olga Mihalovna interrupted;

shall be delightedYour children are so sweet! Kiss them all fome. . . . But, reallyI am offended with you! I don't understan



why you are in such hurry!"

"I really must, I really must. . . . Good-bye, deaTake care of yourself. In your condition, yoknow . . ."

And the ladies kissed each other. After seein

the departing guest to her carriage, Olga Mhalovna went in to the ladies in the drawingroom. There the lamps were already lighteand the gentlemen were sitting down to cards.

I V

The party broke up after supper about a quater past twelve. Seeing her visitors off, OlgMihalovna stood at the door and said:

"You really ought to take a shawl! It's turninglittle chillyPlease God, you don't catch cold!"



"Don't trouble, Olga Mihalovna," the ladieanswered as they got into the carriage. "Welgood-bye. Mind now, we are expecting you

don't play us false!"

"Wo-o-o!" the coachman checked the horses.

"Ready, Denis! Good-bye, Olga Mihalovna!"

"Kiss the children for me!"

The carriage started and immediately disappeared into the darkness. In the red circle o

light cast by the lamp in the road, a fresh paor trio of impatient horses, and the silhouette oa coachman with his hands held out stiffly before him, would come into view. Again therbegan kisses, reproaches, and entreaties t

come again or to take a shawl. Pyotr Dmitritckept running out and helping the ladies inttheir carriages.



"You go now by Efremovshtchina," he directethe coachman; "it's nearer through Mankinbut the road is worse that way. You might hav

an upset. . . . Good-bye, my charmer. Milcompliments to your artist!"

"Good-bye, Olga Mihalovna, darling! Go indoors, or you will catch cold! It's damp!"

"Wo-o-o! you rascal!"

"What horses have you got here?" PyoDmitritch asked.

"They were bought from Haidorov, in Lentanswered the coachman.

"Capital horses. . . ."

And Pyotr Dmitritch patted the trace horse othe haunch.

"Well, you can start! God give you good luck!"



The last visitor was gone at last; the red circon the road quivered, moved aside, contracteand went out, as Vassily carried away the lam

from the entrance. On previous occasions whethey had seen off their visitors, Pyotr Dmitritcand Olga Mihalovna had begun dancing abouthe drawing-room, facing each other, clappintheir hands and singing: "They've gon

They've gone!" But now Olga Mihalovna wanot equal to that. She went to her bedroomundressed, and got into bed.

She fancied she would fall asleep at once ansleep soundly. Her legs and her shoulderached painfully, her head was heavy from thstrain of talking, and she was conscious, as before, of discomfort all over her body. Coverin

her head over, she lay still for three or fouminutes, then peeped out from under the bedclothes at the lamp before the ikon, listened tthe silence, and smiled.



"It's nice, it's nice," she whispered, curling uher legs, which felt as if they had grown longefrom so much walking. "Sleep, sleep . . . ."

Her legs would not get into a comfortable postion; she felt uneasy all over, and she turned othe other side. A big fly blew buzzing about thbedroom and thumped against the ceiling. Sh

could hear, too, Grigory and Vassily steppincautiously about the drawing-room, putting thchairs back in their places; it seemed to OlgMihalovna that she could not go to sleep, nobe comfortable till those sounds were hushedAnd again she turned over on the other sidimpatiently.

She heard her husband's voice in the drawing

room. Some one must be staying the night, aPyotr Dmitritch was addressing some one anspeaking loudly:

"I don't say that Count Alexey Petrovitch is a

impostor. But he can't help seeming to be on



because all of you gentlemen attempt to see ihim something different from what he really iHis craziness is looked upon as originality, h

familiar manners as good-nature, and his complete absence of opinions as ConservatismEven granted that he is a Conservative of thstamp of '84, what after all is Conservatism?"

Pyotr Dmitritch, angry with Count Alexey Perovitch, his visitors, and himself, was relievinhis heart. He abused both the Count and hvisitors, and in his vexation with himself waready to speak out and to hold forth upon anything. After seeing his guest to his room, hwalked up and down the drawing-roomwalked through the dining-room, down thcorridor, then into his study, then again wen

into the drawing-room, and came into the bedroom. Olga Mihalovna was lying on her backwith the bed-clothes only to her waist (by nowshe felt hot), and with an angry face, watchethe fly that was thumping against the ceiling.



"Is some one staying the night?" she asked.

"Yegorov."

Pyotr Dmitritch undressed and got into his bed

Without speaking, he lighted a cigarette, anhe, too, fell to watching the fly. There was auneasy and forbidding look in his eyes. OlgMihalovna looked at his handsome profile fofive minutes in silence. It seemed to her fosome reason that if her husband were suddenlto turn facing her, and to say, "Olga, I am un

happy," she would cry or laugh, and she woulbe at ease. She fancied that her legs were achinand her body was uncomfortable all over because of the strain on her feelings.

"Pyotr, what are you thinking of?" she said.

"Oh, nothing . . ." her husband answered.

"You have taken to having secrets from me o

late: that's not right."



"Why is it not right?" answered Pyotr Dmitritcdrily and not at once. "We all have our personlife, every one of us, and we are bound to hav

our secrets."

"Personal life, our secrets . . . that's all wordUnderstand you are wounding me!" said OlgMihalovna, sitting up in bed. "If you have

load on your heart, why do you hide it fromme? And why do you find it more suitable topen your heart to women who are nothing tyou, instead of to your wife? I overheard yououtpourings to Lubotchka by the bee-house today."

"Well, I congratulate you. I am glad you dioverhear it."

This meant "Leave me alone and let me thinkOlga Mihalovna was indignant. Vexation, hatred, and wrath, which had been accumulatinwithin her during the whole day, suddenl

boiled over; she wanted at once to speak out, t



hurt her husband without putting it off till tomorrow, to wound him, to punish him. . . Making an effort to control herself and not t

scream, she said:

"Let me tell you, then, that it's all loathsomloathsome, loathsomI've been hating you all day; you see wha

you've done."

Pyotr Dmitritch, too, got up and sat on the bed

"It's loathsome, loathsome, loathsome," Olg

Mihalovna went on, beginning to tremble aover. "There's no need to congratulate me; yohad better congratulate yourself! It's a shame, disgrace. You have wrapped yourself in lies tiyou are ashamed to be alone in the room wit

your wife! You are a deceitful man! I sethrough you and understand every step yotake!"



"Olya, I wish you would please warn me wheyou are out of humouThen I will sleep in the study."

Saying this, Pyotr Dmitritch picked up his pilow and walked out of the bedroom. Olga Mhalovna had not foreseen this. For some minutes she remained silent with her mouth open

trembling all over and looking at the door bwhich her husband had gone out, and trying tunderstand what it meant. Was this one of thdevices to which deceitful people have recourswhen they are in the wrong, or was it a delibeate insult aimed at her pride? How was she ttake it? Olga Mihalovna remembered hecousin, a lively young officer, who often useto tell her, laughing, that when "his spous

nagged at him" at night, he usually picked uhis pillow and went whistling to spend thnight in his study, leaving his wife in a foolisand ridiculous position. This officer was maried to a rich, capricious, and foolish woma



whom he did not respect but simply put uwith.

Olga Mihalovna jumped out of bed. To hemind there was only one thing left for her to dnow; to dress with all possible haste and tleave the house forever. The house was heown, but so much the worse for Pyo

Dmitritch. Without pausing to considewhether this was necessary or not, she wenquickly to the study to inform her husband oher intention ("Feminine logic!" flashed througher mind), and to say something wounding ansarcastic at parting. . . .

Pyotr Dmitritch was lying on the sofa and pretending to read a newspaper. There was a can

dle burning on a chair near him. His face coulnot be seen behind the newspaper.

"Be so kind as to tell me what this means? I amasking you."



"Be so kind . . ." Pyotr Dmitritch mimicked henot showing his face. "It's sickening, OlgUpon my honour, I am exhausted and not up t

it. . . . Let us do our quarrelling to-morrow."

"No, I understand you perfectly!" Olga Mhalovna went on. "You hate me! Yes, yes! Yohate me because I am richer than you! You wi

never forgive me for that, and will always blying to me!" ("Feminine logic!" flashed througher mind again.) "You are laughing at me now. . . I am convinced, in fact, that you only maried me in order to have property qualificationand those wretched horses. . . . Oh, I am miseable!"

Pyotr Dmitritch dropped the newspaper an

got up. The unexpected insult overwhelmehim. With a childishly helpless smile he lookedesperately at his wife, and holding out hhands to her as though to ward off blows, hsaid imploringly:



"Olya!"

And expecting her to say something else awfuhe leaned back in his chair, and his huge figurseemed as helplessly childish as his smile.

"Olya, how could you say it?" he whispered.

Olga Mihalovna came to herself. She was suddenly aware of her passionate love for thman, remembered that he was her husbandPyotr Dmitritch, without whom she could nolive for a day, and who loved her passionately

too. She burst into loud sobs that soundestrange and unlike her, and ran back to hebedroom.

She fell on the bed, and short hysterical sob

choking her and making her arms and legtwitch, filled the bedroom. Remembering therwas a visitor sleeping three or four roomaway, she buried her head under the pillow tstifle her sobs, but the pillow rolled on to th



floor, and she almost fell on the floor hersewhen she stooped to pick it up. She pulled thquilt up to her face, but her hands would no

obey her, but tore convulsively at everythinshe clutched.

She thought that everything was lost, that thfalsehood she had told to wound her husban

had shattered her life into fragments. Her huband would not forgive her. The insult she hahurled at him was not one that could be effaceby any caresses, by any vows. . . . How coulshe convince her husband that she did not believe what she had said?

"It's all over, it's all over!" she cried, not notiing that the pillow had slipped on to the floo

again. "For God's sake, for God's sake!"Probably roused by her cries, the guest and thservants were now awake; next day all thneighbourhood would know that she had bee

in hysterics and would blame Pyotr Dmitritch



She made an effort to restrain herself, but hesobs grew louder and louder every minute.

"For God's sake," she cried in a voice not likher own, and not knowing why she cried i"For God's sake!"

She felt as though the bed were heaving unde

her and her feet were entangled in the bedclothes. Pyotr Dmitritch, in his dressing-gownwith a candle in his hand, came into the bedroom.

"Olya, hush!" he said.

She raised herself, and kneeling up in bedscrewing up her eyes at the light, articulatethrough her sobs:

"Understand . . . understand! . . . ."

She wanted to tell him that she was tired tdeath by the party, by his falsity, by her ow



falsity, that it had all worked together, but shcould only articulate:

"Understand . . . understand!"

"Come, drink!" he said, handing her some water.

She took the glass obediently and began drinking, but the water splashed over and was spion her arms, her throat and knees.

"I must look horribly unseemly," she thought.

Pyotr Dmitritch put her back in bed without word, and covered her with the quilt, then htook the candle and went out.

"For God's sake!" Olga Mihalovna cried again"Pyotr, understand, understand!"

Suddenly something gripped her in the lowepart of her body and back with such violenc

that her wailing was cut short, and she bit th



pillow from the pain. But the pain let her gagain at once, and she began sobbing again.

The maid came in, and arranging the quilt oveher, asked in alarm:

"Mistress, darling, what is the matter?"

"Go out of the room," said Pyotr Dmitritcsternly, going up to the bed.

"Understand . . . understand! . . ." Olga Mhalovna began.

"Olya, I entreat you, calm yourself," he said. did not mean to hurt you. I would not havgone out of the room if I had known it woulhave hurt you so much; I simply felt depressed

I tell you, on my honour . . ."

"Understand! . . . You were lying, I was lying. ."



"I understand. . . . Come, come, that's enough!understand," said Pyotr Dmitritch tenderlysitting down on her bed. "You said that in an

ger; I quite understand. I swear to God I lovyou beyond anything on earth, and when married you I never once thought of your beinrich. I loved you immensely, and that's all . . .assure you. I have never been in want of mone

or felt the value of it, and so I cannot feel thdifference between your fortune and mine. always seemed to me we were equally well ofAnd that I have been deceitful in little thing

that . . . of course, is true. My life has hithertbeen arranged in such a frivolous way that has somehow been impossible to get on without paltry lying. It weighs on me, too, now. . Let us leave off talking about it, for goodnes

sake!"

Olga Mihalovna again felt in acute pain, anclutched her husband by the sleeve.



"I am in pain, in pain, in pain . . ." she said rapidly. "Oh, what pain!"

"Damnation take those visitors!" mutterePyotr Dmitritch, getting up. "You ought not thave gone to the island to-day!" he cried. "Whaan idiot I was not to prevent you! Oh, my God

He scratched his head in vexation, and, with wave of his hand, walked out of the room.

Then he came into the room several times, sadown on the bed beside her, and talked a gre

deal, sometimes tenderly, sometimes angrilybut she hardly heard him. Her sobs were continually interrupted by fearful attacks of painand each time the pain was more acute anprolonged. At first she held her breath and b

the pillow during the pain, but then she begascreaming on an unseemly piercing note. Oncseeing her husband near her, she rememberethat she had insulted him, and without pausin

to think whether it were really Pyotr Dmitritc



or whether she were in delirium, clutched hhand in both hers and began kissing it.

"You were lying, I was lying . . ." she begajustifying herself. "Understand, understand. . They have exhausted me, driven me out of apatience."

"Olya, we are not alone," said Pyotr Dmitritch.

Olga Mihalovna raised her head and saw Vavara, who was kneeling by the chest of drawerand pulling out the bottom drawer. The to

drawers were already open. Then Varvara goup, red from the strained position, and with cold, solemn face began trying to unlock a box

"Marya, I can't unlock it!" she said in a whispe

"You unlock it, won't you?"

Marya, the maid, was digging a candle end ouof the candlestick with a pair of scissors, so a



to put in a new candle; she went up to Varvarand helped her to unlock the box.

"There should be nothing locked . . ." whipered Varvara. "Unlock this basket, too, mgood girl. Master," she said, "you should sento Father Mihail to unlock the holy gates! Yomust!"

"Do what you like," said Pyotr Dmitritchbreathing hard, "only, for God's sake, makhaste and fetch the doctor or the midwife! HaVassily gone? Send some one else. Send you

husband!"

"It's the birth," Olga Mihalovna thought. "Vavara," she moaned, "but he won't be boralive!"

"It's all right, it's all right, mistress," whispereVarvara."Please God, he will be alive! he will be alive!"



When Olga Mihalovna came to herself agaiafter a pain she was no longer sobbing nor tosing from side to side, but moaning. She coul

not refrain from moaning even in the intervabetween the pains. The candles were still burning, but the morning light was coming througthe blinds. It was probably about five o'clock ithe morning. At the round table there was si

ting some unknown woman with a very dicreet air, wearing a white apron. From hewhole appearance it was evident she had beesitting there a long time. Olga Mihalovn

guessed that she was the midwife.

"Will it soon be over?" she asked, and in hevoice she heard a peculiar and unfamiliar notwhich had never been there before. "I must b

dying in childbirth," she thought.

Pyotr Dmitritch came cautiously into the bedroom, dressed for the day, and stood at thwindow with his back to his wife. He lifted th

blind and looked out of window.



"What rain!" he said.

"What time is it?" asked Olga Mihalovna, iorder to hear the unfamiliar note in her voicagain.

"A quarter to six," answered the midwife.

"And what if I really am dying?" thought OlgMihalovna, looking at her husband's head anthe window-panes on which the rain was beaing. "How will he live without me? With whomwill he have tea and dinner, talk in the eve

nings, sleep?"

And he seemed to her like a forlorn child; shfelt sorry for him and wanted to say somethinnice, caressing and consolatory. She remem

bered how in the spring he had meant to buhimself some harriers, and she, thinking it cruel and dangerous sport, had prevented himfrom doing it.



"Pyotr, buy yourself harriers," she moaned.

He dropped the blind and went up to the bedand would have said something; but at thamoment the pain came back, and Olga Mhalovna uttered an unseemly, piercing scream

The pain and the constant screaming an

moaning stupefied her. She heard, saw, ansometimes spoke, but hardly understood anything, and was only conscious that she was ipain or was just going to be in pain. It seemeto her that the nameday party had been long

long ago—not yesterday, but a year ago pehaps; and that her new life of agony had lastelonger than her childhood, her school-days, hetime at the University, and her marriage, an

would go on for a long, long time, endlesslyShe saw them bring tea to the midwife, ansummon her at midday to lunch and aftewards to dinner; she saw Pyotr Dmitritch growused to coming in, standing for long interva

by the window, and going out again; saw



strange men, the maid, Varvara, come in athough they were at home. . . . Varvara sainothing but, "He will, he will," and was angr

when any one closed the drawers and the chesOlga Mihalovna saw the light change in throom and in the windows: at one time it watwilight, then thick like fog, then bright daylight as it had been at dinner-time the day be

fore, then again twilight . . . and each of theschanges lasted as long as her childhood, heschool-days, her life at the University. . . .

In the evening two doctors—one bony, baldwith a big red beard; the other with a swarthJewish face and cheap spectacles—performesome sort of operation on Olga Mihalovna. Tthese unknown men touching her body she fe

utterly indifferent. By now she had no feelinof shame, no will, and any one might do whhe would with her. If any one had rushed at hewith a knife, or had insulted Pyotr Dmitritch



or had robbed her of her right to the little creature, she would not have said a word.

They gave her chloroform during the operation. When she came to again, the pain was stithere and insufferable. It was night. And OlgMihalovna remembered that there had beejust such a night with the stillness, the lamp

with the midwife sitting motionless by the bedwith the drawers of the chest pulled out, witPyotr Dmitritch standing by the window, busome time very, very long ago. . . .

V

"I am not dead . . ." thought Olga Mihalovnwhen she began to understand her surround

ings again, and when the pain was over.A bright summer day looked in at the widelopen windows; in the garden below the windows, the sparrows and the magpies neve

ceased chattering for one instant.



The drawers were shut now, her husband's behad been made. There was no sign of the midwife or of the maid, or of Varvara in the room

only Pyotr Dmitritch was standing, as beformotionless by the window looking into thgarden. There was no sound of a child's cryinno one was congratulating her or rejoicing, was evident that the little creature had not bee

born alive.

"Pyotr!"

Olga Mihalovna called to her husband.

Pyotr Dmitritch looked round. It seemed athough a long time must have passed since thlast guest had departed and Olga Mihalovnhad insulted her husband, for Pyotr Dmitritc

was perceptibly thinner and hollow-eyed.

"What is it?" he asked, coming up to the bed.



He looked away, moved his lips and smilewith childlike helplessness.

"Is it all over?" asked Olga Mihalovna.

Pyotr Dmitritch tried to make some answer, buhis lips quivered and his mouth worked like toothless old man's, like Uncle Nikolay Niko

laitch's.

"Olya," he said, wringing his hands; big tearsuddenly dropping from his eyes. "Olya, I doncare about your property qualification, nor th

Circuit Courts . . ." (he gave a sob) "nor particular views, nor those visitors, nor your fortune. . I don't care about anything! Why didn't wtake care of our child? Oh, it's no good talking

With a despairing gesture he went out of thbedroom.

But nothing mattered to Olga Mihalovna nowthere was a mistiness in her brain from th



chloroform, an emptiness in her soul. . . . Thdull indifference to life which had overcomher when the two doctors were performing th

operation still had possession of her.

Documents

Anton Chekhov - The Party