Антон Чехов
The Schoolmaster and Other Stories
MALINGERERS
MARFA PETROVNA PETCHONKIN, the General's widow, who has been practising for ten years as a homeopathic doctor, is seeing patients in her study on one of the Tuesdays in May. On the table before her lie a chest of homeopathic drugs, a book on homeopathy, and bills from a homeopathic chemist. On the wall the letters from some Petersburg homeopath, in Marfa Petrovna's opinion a very celebrated and great man, hang under glass in a gilt frame, and there also is a portrait of Father Aristark, to whom the lady owes her salvation – that is, the renunciation of pernicious allopathy and the knowledge of the truth. In the vestibule patients are sitting waiting, for the most part peasants. All but two or three of them are barefoot, as the lady has given orders that their ill-smelling boots are to be left in the yard.
Marfa Petrovna has already seen ten patients when she calls the eleventh: "Gavrila Gruzd!"
The door opens and instead of Gavrila Gruzd, Zamuhrishen, a neighbouring landowner who has sunk into poverty, a little old man with sour eyes, and with a gentleman's cap under his arm, walks into the room. He puts down his stick in the corner, goes up to the lady, and without a word drops on one knee before her.
"What are you about, Kuzma Kuzmitch?" cries the lady in horror, flushing crimson. "For goodness sake!"
"While I live I will not rise," says Zamuhrishen, bending over her hand. "Let all the world see my homage on my knees, our guardian angel, benefactress of the human race! Let them! Before the good fairy who has given me life, guided me into the path of truth, and enlightened my scepticism I am ready not merely to kneel but to pass through fire, our miraculous healer, mother of the orphan and the widowed! I have recovered. I am a new man, enchantress!"
"I.. I am very glad." mutters the lady, flushing with pleasure. "It's so pleasant to hear that.. Sit down please! Why, you were so seriously ill that Tuesday."
"Yes indeed, how ill I was! It's awful to recall it," says Zamuhrishen, taking a seat. "I had rheumatism in every part and every organ. I have been in misery for eight years, I've had no rest from it.. by day or by night, my benefactress. I have consulted doctors, and I went to professors at Kazan; I have tried all sorts of mud-baths, and drunk waters, and goodness knows what I haven't tried! I have wasted all my substance on doctors, my beautiful lady. The doctors did me nothing but harm. They drove the disease inwards. Drive in, that they did, but to drive out was beyond their science. All they care about is their fees, the brigands; but as for the benefit of humanity – for that they don't care a straw. They prescribe some quackery, and you have to drink it. Assassins, that's the only word for them. If it hadn't been for you, our angel, I should have been in the grave by now! I went home from you that Tuesday, looked at the pilules that you gave me then, and wondered what good there could be in them. Was it possible that those little grains, scarcely visible, could cure my immense, long-standing disease? That's what I thought – unbeliever that I was! – and I smiled; but when I took the pilule – it was instantaneous! It was as though I had not been ill, or as though it had been lifted off me. My wife looked at me with her eyes starting out of her head and couldn't believe it. 'Why, is it you, Kolya?' 'Yes, it is I,' I said. And we knelt down together before the ikon, and fell to praying for our angel: 'Send her, O Lord, all that we are feeling!'"
Zamuhrishen wipes his eyes with his sleeve gets up from his chair, and shows a disposition to drop on one knee again; but the lady checks him and makes him sit down.
"It's not me you must thank," she says, blushing with excitement and looking enthusiastically at the portrait of Father Aristark. "It's not my doing… I am only the obedient instrument. It's really a miracle. Rheumatism of eight years' standing by one pilule of scrofuloso!"
"Excuse me, you were so kind as to give me three pilules. One I took at dinner and the effect was instantaneous! Another in the evening, and the third next day; and since then not a touch! Not a twinge anywhere! And you know I thought I was dying, I had written to Moscow for my son to come! The Lord has given you wisdom, our lady of healing! Now I am walking, and feel as though I were in Paradise. The Tuesday I came to you I was hobbling, and now I am ready to run after a hare… I could live for a hundred years. There's only one trouble, our lack of means. I'm well now, but what's the use of health if there's nothing to live on? Poverty weighs on me worse than illness… For example, take this.. It's the time to sow oats, and how is one to sow it if one has no seed? I ought to buy it, but the money.. everyone knows how we are off for money.."
"I will give you oats, Kuzma Kuzmitch… Sit down, sit down. You have so delighted me, you have given me so much pleasure that it's not you but I that should say thank you!"
"You are our joy! That the Lord should create such goodness! Rejoice, Madam, looking at your good deeds!.. While we sinners have no cause for rejoicing in ourselves… We are paltry, poor-spirited, useless people.. a mean lot… We are only gentry in name, but in a material sense we are the same as peasants, only worse… We live in stone houses, but it's a mere make-believe.. for the roof leaks. And there is no money to buy wood to mend it with."
"I'll give you the wood, Kuzma Kuzmitch."
Zamuhrishen asks for and gets a cow too, a letter of recommendation for his daughter whom he wants to send to a boarding school, and.. touched by the lady's liberality he whimpers with excess of feeling, twists his mouth, and feels in his pocket for his handkerchief..
Marfa Petrovna sees a red paper slip out of his pocket with his handkerchief and fall noiselessly to the floor.
"I shall never forget it to all eternity." he mutters, "and I shall make my children and my grandchildren remember it.. from generation to generation. 'See, children,' I shall say, 'who has saved me from the grave, who.'"
When she has seen her patient out, the lady looks for a minute at Father Aristark with eyes full of tears, then turns her caressing, reverent gaze on the drug chest, the books, the bills, the armchair in which the man she had saved from death has just been sitting, and her eyes fall on the paper just dropped by her patient. She picks up the paper, unfolds it, and sees in it three pilules – the very pilules she had given Zamuhrishen the previous Tuesday.
"They are the very ones," she thinks puzzled. ".. The paper is the same… He hasn't even unwrapped them! What has he taken then? Strange… Surely he wouldn't try to deceive me!"
And for the first time in her ten years of practice a doubt creeps into Marfa Petrovna's mind… She summons the other patients, and while talking to them of their complaints notices what has hitherto slipped by her ears unnoticed. The patients, every one of them as though they were in a conspiracy, first belaud her for their miraculous cure, go into raptures over her medical skill, and abuse allopath doctors, then when she is flushed with excitement, begin holding forth on their needs. One asks for a bit of land to plough, another for wood, a third for permission to shoot in her forests, and so on. She looks at the broad, benevolent countenance of Father Aristark who has revealed the truth to her, and a new truth begins gnawing at her heart. An evil oppressive truth..
The deceitfulness of man!
IN THE GRAVEYARD
"THE wind has got up, friends, and it is beginning to get dark.
Hadn't we better take ourselves off before it gets worse?"
The wind was frolicking among the yellow leaves of the old birch trees, and a shower of thick drops fell upon us from the leaves. One of our party slipped on the clayey soil, and clutched at a big grey cross to save himself from falling.
"Yegor Gryaznorukov, titular councillor and cavalier." he read. "I knew that gentleman. He was fond of his wife, he wore the Stanislav ribbon, and read nothing… His digestion worked well.. life was all right, wasn't it? One would have thought he had no reason to die, but alas! fate had its eye on him… The poor fellow fell a victim to his habits of observation. On one occasion, when he was listening at a keyhole, he got such a bang on the head from the door that he sustained concussion of the brain (he had a brain), and died. And here, under this tombstone, lies a man who from his cradle detested verses and epigrams… As though to mock him his whole tombstone is adorned with verses… There is someone coming!"
A man in a shabby overcoat, with a shaven, bluish-crimson countenance, overtook us. He had a bottle under his arm and a parcel of sausage was sticking out of his pocket.
"Where is the grave of Mushkin, the actor?" he asked us in a husky voice.
We conducted him towards the grave of Mushkin, the actor, who had died two years before.
"You are a government clerk, I suppose?" we asked him.
"No, an actor. Nowadays it is difficult to distinguish actors from clerks of the Consistory. No doubt you have noticed that… That's typical, but it's not very flattering for the government clerk."
It was with difficulty that we found the actor's grave. It had sunken, was overgrown with weeds, and had lost all appearance of a grave. A cheap, little cross that had begun to rot, and was covered with green moss blackened by the frost, had an air of aged dejection and looked, as it were, ailing.
".. forgotten friend Mushkin." we read.
Time had erased the never, and corrected the falsehood of man.
"A subscription for a monument to him was got up among actors and journalists, but they drank up the money, the dear fellows." sighed the actor, bowing down to the ground and touching the wet earth with his knees and his cap.
"How do you mean, drank it?"
That's very simple. They collected the money, published a paragraph about it in the newspaper, and spent it on drink… I don't say it to blame them… I hope it did them good, dear things! Good health to them, and eternal memory to him."
"Drinking means bad health, and eternal memory nothing but sadness. God give us remembrance for a time, but eternal memory – what next!"
"You are right there. Mushkin was a well-known man, you see; there were a dozen wreaths on the coffin, and he is already forgotten. Those to whom he was dear have forgotten him, but those to whom he did harm remember him. I, for instance, shall never, never forget him, for I got nothing but harm from him. I have no love for the deceased."
"What harm did he do you?"
"Great harm," sighed the actor, and an expression of bitter resentment overspread his face. "To me he was a villain and a scoundrel – the Kingdom of Heaven be his! It was through looking at him and listening to him that I became an actor. By his art he lured me from the parental home, he enticed me with the excitements of an actor's life, promised me all sorts of things – and brought tears and sorrow… An actor's lot is a bitter one! I have lost youth, sobriety, and the divine semblance… I haven't a half-penny to bless myself with, my shoes are down at heel, my breeches are frayed and patched, and my face looks as if it had been gnawed by dogs… My head's full of freethinking and nonsense… He robbed me of my faith – my evil genius! It would have been something if I had had talent, but as it is, I am ruined for nothing… It's cold, honoured friends… Won't you have some? There is enough for all… B-r-r-r… Let us drink to the rest of his soul! Though I don't like him and though he's dead, he was the only one I had in the world, the only one. It's the last time I shall visit him… The doctors say I shall soon die of drink, so here I have come to say good-bye. One must forgive one's enemies."
We left the actor to converse with the dead Mushkin and went on.
It began drizzling a fine cold rain.
At the turning into the principal avenue strewn with gravel, we met a funeral procession. Four bearers, wearing white calico sashes and muddy high boots with leaves sticking on them, carried the brown coffin. It was getting dark and they hastened, stumbling and shaking their burden..
"We've only been walking here for a couple of hours and that is the third brought in already… Shall we go home, friends?"
HUSH!
IVAN YEGORITCH KRASNYHIN, a fourth-rate journalist, returns home late at night, grave and careworn, with a peculiar air of concentration. He looks like a man expecting a police-raid or contemplating suicide. Pacing about his rooms he halts abruptly, ruffles up his hair, and says in the tone in which Laertes announces his intention of avenging his sister:
"Shattered, soul-weary, a sick load of misery on the heart.. and then to sit down and write. And this is called life! How is it nobody has described the agonizing discord in the soul of a writer who has to amuse the crowd when his heart is heavy or to shed tears at the word of command when his heart is light? I must be playful, coldly unconcerned, witty, but what if I am weighed down with misery, what if I am ill, or my child is dying or my wife in anguish!"
He says this, brandishing his fists and rolling his eyes..
Then he goes into the bedroom and wakes his wife.
"Nadya," he says, "I am sitting down to write… Please don't let anyone interrupt me. I can't write with children crying or cooks snoring… See, too, that there's tea and.. steak or something… You know that I can't write without tea… Tea is the one thing that gives me the energy for my work."
Returning to his room he takes off his coat, waistcoat, and boots. He does this very slowly; then, assuming an expression of injured innocence, he sits down to his table.
There is nothing casual, nothing ordinary on his writing-table, down to the veriest trifle everything bears the stamp of a stern, deliberately planned programme. Little busts and photographs of distinguished writers, heaps of rough manuscripts, a volume of Byelinsky with a page turned down, part of a skull by way of an ash-tray, a sheet of newspaper folded carelessly, but so that a passage is uppermost, boldly marked in blue pencil with the word "disgraceful." There are a dozen sharply-pointed pencils and several penholders fitted with new nibs, put in readiness that no accidental breaking of a pen may for a single second interrupt the flight of his creative fancy.
Ivan Yegoritch throws himself back in his chair, and closing his eyes concentrates himself on his subject. He hears his wife shuffling about in her slippers and splitting shavings to heat the samovar. She is hardly awake, that is apparent from the way the knife and the lid of the samovar keep dropping from her hands. Soon the hissing of the samovar and the spluttering of the frying meat reaches him. His wife is still splitting shavings and rattling with the doors and blowers of the stove.
All at once Ivan Yegoritch starts, opens frightened eyes, and begins to sniff the air.
"Heavens! the stove is smoking!" he groans, grimacing with a face of agony. "Smoking! That insufferable woman makes a point of trying to poison me! How, in God's Name, am I to write in such surroundings, kindly tell me that?"
He rushes into the kitchen and breaks into a theatrical wail. When a little later, his wife, stepping cautiously on tiptoe, brings him in a glass of tea, he is sitting in an easy chair as before with his eyes closed, absorbed in his article. He does not stir, drums lightly on his forehead with two fingers, and pretends he is not aware of his wife's presence… His face wears an expression of injured innocence.
Like a girl who has been presented with a costly fan, he spends a long time coquetting, grimacing, and posing to himself before he writes the title… He presses his temples, he wriggles, and draws his legs up under his chair as though he were in pain, or half closes his eyes languidly like a cat on the sofa. At last, not without hesitation, he stretches out his hand towards the inkstand, and with an expression as though he were signing a death-warrant, writes the title..
"Mammy, give me some water!" he hears his son's voice.
"Hush!" says his mother. "Daddy's writing! Hush!"
Daddy writes very, very quickly, without corrections or pauses, he has scarcely time to turn over the pages. The busts and portraits of celebrated authors look at his swiftly racing pen and, keeping stock still, seem to be thinking: "Oh my, how you are going it!"
"Sh!" squeaks the pen.
"Sh!" whisper the authors, when his knee jolts the table and they are set trembling.
All at once Krasnyhin draws himself up, lays down his pen and listens… He hears an even monotonous whispering… It is Foma Nikolaevitch, the lodger in the next room, saying his prayers.
"I say!" cries Krasnyhin. "Couldn't you, please, say your prayers more quietly? You prevent me from writing!"
"Very sorry.." Foma Nikolaevitch answers timidly.
After covering five pages, Krasnyhin stretches and looks at his watch.
"Goodness, three o'clock already," he moans. "Other people are asleep while I.. I alone must work!"
Shattered and exhausted he goes, with his head on one side, to the bedroom to wake his wife, and says in a languid voice:
"Nadya, get me some more tea! I.. feel weak."
He writes till four o'clock and would readily have written till six if his subject had not been exhausted. Coquetting and posing to himself and the inanimate objects about him, far from any indiscreet, critical eye, tyrannizing and domineering over the little anthill that fate has put in his power are the honey and the salt of his existence. And how different is this despot here at home from the humble, meek, dull-witted little man we are accustomed to see in the editor's offices!
"I am so exhausted that I am afraid I shan't sleep." he says as he gets into bed. "Our work, this cursed, ungrateful hard labour, exhausts the soul even more than the body… I had better take some bromide… God knows, if it were not for my family I'd throw up the work… To write to order! It is awful."
He sleeps till twelve or one o'clock in the day, sleeps a sound, healthy sleep… Ah! how he would sleep, what dreams he would have, how he would spread himself if he were to become a well-known writer, an editor, or even a sub-editor!
"He has been writing all night," whispers his wife with a scared expression on her face. "Sh!"
No one dares to speak or move or make a sound. His sleep is something sacred, and the culprit who offends against it will pay dearly for his fault.
"Hush!" floats over the flat. "Hush!"
IN AN HOTEL
"LET me tell you, my good man," began Madame Nashatyrin, the colonel's lady at No. 47, crimson and spluttering, as she pounced on the hotel-keeper. "Either give me other apartments, or I shall leave your confounded hotel altogether! It's a sink of iniquity! Mercy on us, I have grown-up daughters and one hears nothing but abominations day and night! It's beyond everything! Day and night! Sometimes he fires off such things that it simply makes one's ears blush! Positively like a cabman. It's a good thing that my poor girls don't understand or I should have to fly out into the street with them.. He's saying something now! You listen!"
"I know a thing better than that, my boy," a husky bass floated in from the next room. "Do you remember Lieutenant Druzhkov? Well, that same Druzhkov was one day making a drive with the yellow into the pocket and as he usually did, you know, flung up his leg… All at once something went crrr-ack! At first they thought he had torn the cloth of the billiard table, but when they looked, my dear fellow, his United States had split at every seam! He had made such a high kick, the beast, that not a seam was left… Ha-ha-ha, and there were ladies present, too.. among others the wife of that drivelling Lieutenant Okurin… Okurin was furious… 'How dare the fellow,' said he, 'behave with impropriety in the presence of my wife?' One thing led to another.. you know our fellows!.. Okurin sent seconds to Druzhkov, and Druzhkov said 'don't be a fool'.. ha-ha-ha, 'but tell him he had better send seconds not to me but to the tailor who made me those breeches; it is his fault, you know.' Ha-ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha.."
Lilya and Mila, the colonel's daughters, who were sitting in the window with their round cheeks propped on their fists, flushed crimson and dropped their eyes that looked buried in their plump faces.
"Now you have heard him, haven't you?" Madame Nashatyrin went on, addressing the hotel-keeper. "And that, you consider, of no consequence, I suppose? I am the wife of a colonel, sir! My husband is a commanding officer. I will not permit some cabman to utter such infamies almost in my presence!"
"He is not a cabman, madam, but the staff-captain Kikin… A gentleman born."
"If he has so far forgotten his station as to express himself like a cabman, then he is even more deserving of contempt! In short, don't answer me, but kindly take steps!"
"But what can I do, madam? You are not the only one to complain, everybody's complaining, but what am I to do with him? One goes to his room and begins putting him to shame, saying: 'Hannibal Ivanitch, have some fear of God! It's shameful! and he'll punch you in the face with his fists and say all sorts of things: 'there, put that in your pipe and smoke it,' and such like. It's a disgrace! He wakes up in the morning and sets to walking about the corridor in nothing, saving your presence, but his underclothes. And when he has had a drop he will pick up a revolver and set to putting bullets into the wall. By day he is swilling liquor and at night he plays cards like mad, and after cards it is fighting… I am ashamed for the other lodgers to see it!"
"Why don't you get rid of the scoundrel?"
"Why, there's no getting him out! He owes me for three months, but we don't ask for our money, we simply ask him to get out as a favour.. The magistrate has given him an order to clear out of the rooms, but he's taking it from one court to another, and so it drags on… He's a perfect nuisance, that's what he is. And, good Lord, such a man, too! Young, good-looking and intellectual… When he hasn't had a drop you couldn't wish to see a nicer gentleman. The other day he wasn't drunk and he spent the whole day writing letters to his father and mother."
"Poor father and mother!" sighed the colonel's lady.
"They are to be pitied, to be sure! There's no comfort in having such a scamp! He's sworn at and turned out of his lodgings, and not a day passes but he is in trouble over some scandal. It's sad!"
"His poor unhappy wife!" sighed the lady.
"He has no wife, madam. A likely idea! She would have to thank God if her head were not broken.."
The lady walked up and down the room.
"He is not married, you say?"
"Certainly not, madam."
The lady walked up and down the room again and mused a little.
"H'm, not married." she pronounced meditatively. "H'm. Lilya and Mila, don't sit at the window, there's a draught! What a pity! A young man and to let himself sink to this! And all owing to what? The lack of good influence! There is no mother who would… Not married? Well.. there it is… Please be so good," the lady continued suavely after a moment's thought, "as to go to him and ask him in my name to.. refrain from using expressions… Tell him that Madame Nashatyrin begs him… Tell him she is staying with her daughters in No. 47.. that she has come up from her estate in the country.."
"Certainly."
"Tell him, a colonel's lady and her daughters. He might even come and apologize… We are always at home after dinner. Oh, Mila, shut the window!"
"Why, what do you want with that.. black sheep, mamma?" drawled
Lilya when the hotel-keeper had retired. "A queer person to invite!
A drunken, rowdy rascal!"
"Oh, don't say so, ma chère! You always talk like that; and there.. sit down! Why, whatever he may be, we ought not to despise him… There's something good in everyone. Who knows," sighed the colonel's lady, looking her daughters up and down anxiously, "perhaps your fate is here. Change your dresses anyway.."
