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

secondly, Pushkin was not a psychologist. Shtchedrin now, or Dostoevsky let us say, is a different matter, but Pushkin is a great poet and nothing more.”

“Shtchedrin is one thing, and Pushkin is another,” Nikitin answered sulkily.

“I know you don’t think much of Shtchedrin at the high school, but that’s not the point. Tell me, in what sense is Pushkin a psychologist?”

“Why, do you mean to say he was not a psychologist? If you like, I’ll give you examples.”

And Nikitin recited several passages from Onyegin and then from Boris Godunov.

“I see no psychology in that.” Varya sighed. “The psychologist is the man who describes the recesses of the human soul, and that’s fine poetry and nothing more.”

“I know the sort of psychology you want,” said Nikitin, offended. “You want someone to saw my finger with a blunt saw while I howl at the top of my voice⁠—that’s what you mean by psychology.”

“That’s poor! But still you haven’t shown me in what sense Pushkin is a psychologist?”

When Nikitin had to argue against anything that seemed to him narrow, conventional, or something of that kind, he usually leaped up from his seat, clutched at his head with both hands, and began with a moan, running from one end of the room to another. And it was the same now: he jumped up, clutched his head in his hands, and with a moan walked round the table, then he sat down a little way off.

The officers took his part. Captain Polyansky began assuring Varya that Pushkin really was a psychologist, and to prove it quoted two lines from Lermontov; Lieutenant Gernet said that if Pushkin had not been a psychologist they would not have erected a monument to him in Moscow.

“That’s loutishness!” was heard from the other end of the table. “I said as much to the governor: ‘It’s loutishness, your Excellency,’ I said.”

“I won’t argue any more,” cried Nikitin. “It’s unending.⁠ ⁠… Enough! Ach, get away, you nasty dog!” he cried to Som, who laid his head and paw on his knee.

“Rrr⁠ ⁠… nga-nga-nga!” came from under the table.

“Admit that you are wrong!” cried Varya. “Own up!”

But some young ladies came in, and the argument dropped of itself. They all went into the drawing room. Varya sat down at the piano and began playing dances. They danced first a waltz, then a polka, then a quadrille with a grand chain which Captain Polyansky led through all the rooms, then a waltz again.

During the dancing the old men sat in the drawing room, smoking and looking at the young people. Among them was Shebaldin, the director of the municipal bank, who was famed for his love of literature and dramatic art. He had founded the local Musical and Dramatic Society, and took part in the performances himself, confining himself, for some reason, to playing comic footmen or to reading in a singsong voice The Woman Who Was a Sinner. His nickname in the town was “the Mummy,” as he was tall, very lean and scraggy, and always had a solemn air and a fixed, lustreless eye. He was so devoted to the dramatic art that he even shaved his moustache and beard, and this made him still more like a mummy.

After the grand chain, he shuffled up to Nikitin sideways, coughed, and said:

“I had the pleasure of being present during the argument at tea. I fully share your opinion. We are of one mind, and it would be a great pleasure to me to talk to you. Have you read Lessing on the dramatic art of Hamburg?”

“No, I haven’t.”

Shebaldin was horrified, and waved his hands as though he had burnt his fingers, and saying nothing more, staggered back from Nikitin. Shebaldin’s appearance, his question, and his surprise, struck Nikitin as funny, but he thought none the less:

“It really is awkward. I am a teacher of literature, and to this day I’ve not read Lessing. I must read him.”

Before supper the whole company, old and young, sat down to play “fate.” They took two packs of cards: one pack was dealt round to the company, the other was laid on the table face downwards.

“The one who has this card in his hand,” old Shelestov began solemnly, lifting the top card of the second pack, “is fated to go into the nursery and kiss nurse.”

The pleasure of kissing the nurse fell to the lot of Shebaldin. They all crowded round him, took him to the nursery, and laughing and clapping their hands, made him kiss the nurse. There was a great uproar and shouting.

“Not so ardently!” cried Shelestov with tears of laughter. “Not so ardently!”

It was Nikitin’s “fate” to hear the confessions of all. He sat on a chair in the middle of the drawing room. A shawl was brought and put over his head. The first who came to confess to him was Varya.

“I know your sins,” Nikitin began, looking in the darkness at her stern profile. “Tell me, madam, how do you explain your walking with Polyansky every day? Oh, it’s not for nothing she walks with an hussar!”

“That’s poor,” said Varya, and walked away.

Then under the shawl he saw the shine of big motionless eyes, caught the lines of a dear profile in the dark, together with a familiar, precious fragrance which reminded Nikitin of Masha’s room.

“Marie Godefroi,” he said, and did not know his own voice, it was so soft and tender, “what are your sins?”

Masha screwed up her eyes and put out the tip of her tongue at him, then she laughed and went away. And a minute later she was standing in the middle of the room, clapping her hands and crying:

“Supper, supper, supper!”

And they all streamed into the dining room. At supper Varya had another argument, and this time with her father. Polyansky ate stolidly, drank red wine, and described to Nikitin how once in a winter campaign he had stood all night up to his knees in a bog; the enemy was so near that they were