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

Expecting a cold businesslike reception, he went in to Kuznetsov’s diffidently, looking up from under his eyebrows and shyly pulling his beard. At first Kuznetsov wrinkled up his brows and could not understand what use the Zemstvo could be to the young man and his statistics; but when the latter explained at length what was material for statistics and how such material was collected, Kuznetsov brightened, smiled, and with childish curiosity began looking at his notebooks. On the evening of the same day Ivan Alexeyitch was already sitting at supper with the Kuznetsovs, was rapidly becoming exhilarated by their strong homemade wine, and looking at the calm faces and lazy movements of his new acquaintances, felt all over that sweet, drowsy indolence which makes one want to sleep and stretch and smile; while his new acquaintances looked at him good-naturedly and asked him whether his father and mother were living, how much he earned a month, how often he went to the theatre.⁠ ⁠…

Ognev recalled his expeditions about the neighbourhood, the picnics, the fishing parties, the visit of the whole party to the convent to see the Mother Superior Marfa, who had given each of the visitors a bead purse; he recalled the hot, endless typically Russian arguments in which the opponents, spluttering and banging the table with their fists, misunderstand and interrupt one another, unconsciously contradict themselves at every phrase, continually change the subject, and after arguing for two or three hours, laugh and say: “Goodness knows what we have been arguing about! Beginning with one thing and going on to another!”

“And do you remember how the doctor and you and I rode to Shestovo?” said Ivan Alexeyitch to Vera as they reached the copse. “It was there that the crazy saint met us: I gave him a five-kopeck piece, and he crossed himself three times and flung it into the rye. Good heavens! I am carrying away such a mass of memories that if I could gather them together into a whole it would make a good nugget of gold! I don’t understand why clever, perceptive people crowd into Petersburg and Moscow and don’t come here. Is there more truth and freedom in the Nevsky and in the big damp houses than here? Really, the idea of artists, scientific men, and journalists all living crowded together in furnished rooms has always seemed to me a mistake.”

Twenty paces from the copse the road was crossed by a small narrow bridge with posts at the corners, which had always served as a resting-place for the Kuznetsovs and their guests on their evening walks. From there those who liked could mimic the forest echo, and one could see the road vanish in the dark woodland track.

“Well, here is the bridge!” said Ognev. “Here you must turn back.”

Vera stopped and drew a breath.

“Let us sit down,” she said, sitting down on one of the posts. “People generally sit down when they say goodbye before starting on a journey.”

Ognev settled himself beside her on his bundle of books and went on talking. She was breathless from the walk, and was looking, not at Ivan Alexeyitch, but away into the distance so that he could not see her face.

“And what if we meet in ten years’ time?” he said. “What shall we be like then? You will be by then the respectable mother of a family, and I shall be the author of some weighty statistical work of no use to anyone, as thick as forty thousand such works. We shall meet and think of old days.⁠ ⁠… Now we are conscious of the present; it absorbs and excites us, but when we meet we shall not remember the day, nor the month, nor even the year in which we saw each other for the last time on this bridge. You will be changed, perhaps.⁠ ⁠… Tell me, will you be different?”

Vera started and turned her face towards him.

“What?” she asked.

“I asked you just now.⁠ ⁠…”

“Excuse me, I did not hear what you were saying.”

Only then Ognev noticed a change in Vera. She was pale, breathing fast, and the tremor in her breathing affected her hands and lips and head, and not one curl as usual, but two, came loose and fell on her forehead.⁠ ⁠… Evidently she avoided looking him in the face, and, trying to mask her emotion, at one moment fingered her collar, which seemed to be rasping her neck, at another pulled her red shawl from one shoulder to the other.

“I am afraid you are cold,” said Ognev. “It’s not at all wise to sit in the mist. Let me see you back nach-haus.”

Vera sat mute.

“What is the matter?” asked Ognev, with a smile. “You sit silent and don’t answer my questions. Are you cross, or don’t you feel well?”

Vera pressed the palm of her hand to the cheek nearest to Ognev, and then abruptly jerked it away.

“An awful position!” she murmured, with a look of pain on her face. “Awful!”

“How is it awful?” asked Ognev, shrugging his shoulders and not concealing his surprise. “What’s the matter?”

Still breathing hard and twitching her shoulders, Vera turned her back to him, looked at the sky for half a minute, and said:

“There is something I must say to you, Ivan Alexeyitch.⁠ ⁠…”

“I am listening.”

“It may seem strange to you.⁠ ⁠… You will be surprised, but I don’t care.⁠ ⁠…”

Ognev shrugged his shoulders once more and prepared himself to listen.

“You see⁠ ⁠…” Verotchka began, bowing her head and fingering a ball on the fringe of her shawl. “You see⁠ ⁠… this is what I wanted to tell you.⁠ ⁠… You’ll think it strange⁠ ⁠… and silly, but I⁠ ⁠… can’t bear it any longer.”

Vera’s words died away in an indistinct mutter and were suddenly cut short by tears. The girl hid her face in her handkerchief, bent lower than ever, and wept bitterly. Ivan Alexeyitch cleared his throat in confusion and looked about him hopelessly, at his wits’ end, not knowing what to say or do.