Short Fiction, Anton Chekhov [websites to read books for free .TXT] 📗
- Author: Anton Chekhov
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Valentin is looking out of the schoolhouse window. In the background Villagers can be seen taking their goods to the inn.
Like a man condemned to be executed and convinced of the impossibility of a reprieve, Pavel Vassilyevitch gave up expecting the end, abandoned all hope, and simply tried to prevent his eyes from closing, and to retain an expression of attention on his face. … The future when the lady would finish her play and depart seemed to him so remote that he did not even think of it.
“Trooo—too—too—too …” the lady’s voice sounded in his ears. “Troo—too—too … sh—sh—sh—sh …”
“I forgot to take my soda,” he thought. “What am I thinking about? Oh—my soda. … Most likely I shall have a bilious attack. … It’s extraordinary, Smirnovsky swills vodka all day long and yet he never has a bilious attack. … There’s a bird settled on the window … a sparrow. …”
Pavel Vassilyevitch made an effort to unglue his strained and closing eyelids, yawned without opening his mouth, and stared at Mme. Murashkin. She grew misty and swayed before his eyes, turned into a triangle and her head pressed against the ceiling. …
ValentinNo, let me depart.
AnnaIn dismay. Why?
ValentinAside. She has turned pale! To her. Do not force me to explain. Sooner would I die than you should know the reason.
AnnaAfter a pause. You cannot go away. …
The lady began to swell, swelled to an immense size, and melted into the dingy atmosphere of the study—only her moving mouth was visible; then she suddenly dwindled to the size of a bottle, swayed from side to side, and with the table retreated to the further end of the room …
ValentinHolding Anna in his arms. You have given me new life! You have shown me an object to live for! You have renewed me as the Spring rain renews the awakened earth! But … it is too late, too late! The ill that gnaws at my heart is beyond cure. …
Pavel Vassilyevitch started and with dim and smarting eyes stared at the reading lady; for a minute he gazed fixedly as though understanding nothing. …
Scene XI
The same. The Baron and the Police Inspector with assistants.
ValentinTake me!
AnnaI am his! Take me too! Yes, take me too! I love him, I love him more than life!
BaronAnna Sergyevna, you forget that you are ruining your father. …
The lady began swelling again. … Looking round him wildly Pavel Vassilyevitch got up, yelled in a deep, unnatural voice, snatched from the table a heavy paperweight, and beside himself, brought it down with all his force on the authoress’s head. …
“Give me in charge, I’ve killed her!” he said to the maidservant who ran in, a minute later.
The jury acquitted him.
A TransgressionA collegiate assessor called Miguev stopped at a telegraph-post in the course of his evening walk and heaved a deep sigh. A week before, as he was returning home from his evening walk, he had been overtaken at that very spot by his former housemaid, Agnia, who said to him viciously:
“Wait a bit! I’ll cook you such a crab that’ll teach you to ruin innocent girls! I’ll leave the baby at your door, and I’ll have the law of you, and I’ll tell your wife, too. …”
And she demanded that he should put five thousand roubles into the bank in her name. Miguev remembered it, heaved a sigh, and once more reproached himself with heartfelt repentance for the momentary infatuation which had caused him so much worry and misery.
When he reached his bungalow, he sat down to rest on the doorstep. It was just ten o’clock, and a bit of the moon peeped out from behind the clouds. There was not a soul in the street nor near the bungalows; elderly summer visitors were already going to bed, while young ones were walking in the wood. Feeling in both his pockets for a match to light his cigarette, Miguev brought his elbow into contact with something soft. He looked idly at his right elbow, and his face was instantly contorted by a look of as much horror as though he had seen a snake beside him. On the step at the very door lay a bundle. Something oblong in shape was wrapped up in something—judging by the feel of it, a wadded quilt. One end of the bundle was a little open, and the collegiate assessor, putting in his hand, felt something damp and warm. He leaped on to his feet in horror, and looked about him like a criminal trying to escape from his warders. …
“She has left it!” he muttered wrathfully through his teeth, clenching his fists. “Here it lies. … Here lies my transgression! O Lord!”
He was numb with terror, anger, and shame … What was he to do now? What would his wife say if she found out? What would his colleagues at the office say? His Excellency would be sure to dig him in the ribs, guffaw, and say: “I congratulate you! … He-he-he! Though your beard is gray, your heart is gay. … You are a rogue, Semyon Erastovitch!” The whole colony of summer visitors would know his secret now, and probably the respectable mothers of families would shut their doors to him. Such incidents always get into the papers, and the humble name of Miguev would be published all over Russia. …
The middle window of the bungalow was open and he could distinctly hear his wife, Anna Filippovna, laying the table for supper; in the yard close to the gate Yermolay, the porter, was plaintively strumming on the balalaika. The baby had only to wake up and begin to cry, and the secret would be discovered. Miguev was conscious of an overwhelming desire to make haste.
“Haste, haste! …” he muttered, “this minute, before anyone sees. I’ll carry it away and lay it on somebody’s doorstep. …”
Miguev took the bundle in one hand and quietly, with
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