Short Fiction, Anton Chekhov [websites to read books for free .TXT] 📗

what’s the use of my keeping them? Poof⁠ ⁠… it’s a regular farce! I talk to them in Russian, and they answer me in French. They don’t understand a thing⁠—you can’t knock anything into their heads.”

“I’ve come to you about something, Ivan Petrovitch, to talk things over.⁠ ⁠… H’m.⁠ ⁠… It’s nothing very particular. But just⁠ ⁠… two or three words.⁠ ⁠… In reality, I have a favour to ask of you.”

“What’s that?”

“Would you think it possible, Ivan Petrovitch, to go away? We are delighted that you are here; it’s very agreeable for us, but it’s inconvenient, don’t you know.⁠ ⁠… You will understand me. It’s awkward in a way.⁠ ⁠… Such indefinite relations, such continual awkwardness in regard to one another.⁠ ⁠… We must part.⁠ ⁠… It’s essential in fact. Excuse my saying so, but⁠ ⁠… you must see for yourself, of course, that in such circumstances to be living side by side leads to⁠ ⁠… reflections⁠ ⁠… that is⁠ ⁠… not to reflections, but there is a certain awkward feeling.⁠ ⁠…”

“Yes.⁠ ⁠… That is so, I have thought of it myself. Very good, I will go away.”

“We shall be very grateful to you.⁠ ⁠… Believe me, Ivan Petrovitch, we shall preserve the most flattering memory of you. The sacrifice which you⁠ ⁠…”

“Very good.⁠ ⁠… Only what am I to do with all this? I say, you buy this furniture of mine! What do you say? It’s not expensive, eight thousand⁠ ⁠… ten.⁠ ⁠… The furniture, the carriage, the grand piano.⁠ ⁠…”

“Very good.⁠ ⁠… I will give you ten thousand.⁠ ⁠…”

“Well, that is capital! I will set off tomorrow. I shall go to Moscow. It’s impossible to live here. Everything is so dear! Awfully dear! The money fairly flies.⁠ ⁠… You can’t take a step without spending a thousand! I can’t go on like that. I have a child to bring up.⁠ ⁠… Well, thank God that you will buy my furniture.⁠ ⁠… That will be a little more in hand, or I should have been regularly bankrupt.⁠ ⁠…”

Groholsky got up, took leave of Bugrov, and went home rejoicing. In the evening he sent him ten thousand roubles.

Early next morning Bugrov and Mishutka were already at Feodosia.

III

Several months had passed; spring had come. With spring, fine bright days had come too. Life was not so dull and hateful, and the earth was more fair to look upon.⁠ ⁠… There was a warm breeze from the sea and the open country.⁠ ⁠… The earth was covered with fresh grass, fresh leaves were green upon the trees. Nature had sprung into new life, and had put on new array.

It might be thought that new hopes and new desires would surge up in man when everything in nature is renewed, and young and fresh⁠ ⁠… but it is hard for man to renew life.⁠ ⁠…

Groholsky was still living in the same villa. His hopes and desires, small and unexacting, were still concentrated on the same Liza, on her alone, and on nothing else! As before, he could not take his eyes off her, and gloated over the thought: how happy I am! The poor fellow really did feel awfully happy. Liza sat as before on the verandah, and unaccountably stared with bored eyes at the villa opposite and the trees near it through which there was a peep at the dark blue sea.⁠ ⁠… As before, she spent her days for the most part in silence, often in tears and from time to time in putting mustard plasters on Groholsky. She might be congratulated on one new sensation, however. There was a worm gnawing at her vitals.⁠ ⁠… That worm was misery.⁠ ⁠… She was fearfully miserable, pining for her son, for her old, her cheerful manner of life. Her life in the past had not been particularly cheerful, but still it was livelier than her present existence. When she lived with her husband she used from time to time to go to a theatre, to an entertainment, to visit acquaintances. But here with Groholsky it was all quietness and emptiness.⁠ ⁠… Besides, here there was one man, and he with his ailments and his continual mawkish kisses, was like an old grandfather forever shedding tears of joy.

It was boring! Here she had not Mihey Sergeyitch who used to be fond of dancing the mazurka with her. She had not Spiridon Nikolaitch, the son of the editor of the Provincial News. Spiridon Nikolaitch sang well and recited poetry. Here she had not a table set with lunch for visitors. She had not Gerasimovna, the old nurse who used to be continually grumbling at her for eating too much jam.⁠ ⁠… She had no one! There was simply nothing for her but to lie down and die of depression. Groholsky rejoiced in his solitude, but⁠ ⁠… he was wrong to rejoice in it. All too soon he paid for his egoism. At the beginning of May when the very air seemed to be in love and faint with happiness, Groholsky lost everything; the woman he loved and⁠ ⁠…

That year Bugrov, too, visited the Crimea. He did not take the villa opposite, but pottered about, going from one town to another with Mishutka. He spent his time eating, drinking, sleeping, and playing cards. He had lost all relish for fishing, shooting and the French women, who, between ourselves, had robbed him a bit. He had grown thin, lost his broad and beaming smiles, and had taken to dressing in canvas. Ivan Petrovitch from time to time visited Groholsky’s villa. He brought Liza jam, sweets, and fruit, and seemed trying to dispel her ennui. Groholsky was not troubled by these visits, especially as they were brief and infrequent, and were apparently paid on account of Mishutka, who could not under any circumstances have been altogether deprived of the privilege of seeing his mother. Bugrov came, unpacked his presents, and after saying a few words, departed. And those few words he said not to Liza but to Groholsky.⁠ ⁠… With Liza he was silent and Groholsky’s mind was at rest; but there is a Russian proverb which he would have done well to remember: “Don’t fear the dog that barks,