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

Iona sees a house-porter with a parcel and makes up his mind to address him.

“What time will it be, friend?” he asks.

“Going on for ten.⁠ ⁠… Why have you stopped here? Drive on!”

Iona drives a few paces away, bends himself double, and gives himself up to his misery. He feels it is no good to appeal to people. But before five minutes have passed he draws himself up, shakes his head as though he feels a sharp pain, and tugs at the reins.⁠ ⁠… He can bear it no longer.

“Back to the yard!” he thinks. “To the yard!”

And his little mare, as though she knew his thoughts, falls to trotting. An hour and a half later Iona is sitting by a big dirty stove. On the stove, on the floor, and on the benches are people snoring. The air is full of smells and stuffiness. Iona looks at the sleeping figures, scratches himself, and regrets that he has come home so early.⁠ ⁠…

“I have not earned enough to pay for the oats, even,” he thinks. “That’s why I am so miserable. A man who knows how to do his work,⁠ ⁠… who has had enough to eat, and whose horse has had enough to eat, is always at ease.⁠ ⁠…”

In one of the corners a young cabman gets up, clears his throat sleepily, and makes for the water-bucket.

“Want a drink?” Iona asks him.

“Seems so.”

“May it do you good.⁠ ⁠… But my son is dead, mate.⁠ ⁠… Do you hear? This week in the hospital.⁠ ⁠… It’s a queer business.⁠ ⁠…”

Iona looks to see the effect produced by his words, but he sees nothing. The young man has covered his head over and is already asleep. The old man sighs and scratches himself.⁠ ⁠… Just as the young man had been thirsty for water, he thirsts for speech. His son will soon have been dead a week, and he has not really talked to anybody yet.⁠ ⁠… He wants to talk of it properly, with deliberation.⁠ ⁠… He wants to tell how his son was taken ill, how he suffered, what he said before he died, how he died.⁠ ⁠… He wants to describe the funeral, and how he went to the hospital to get his son’s clothes. He still has his daughter Anisya in the country.⁠ ⁠… And he wants to talk about her too.⁠ ⁠… Yes, he has plenty to talk about now. His listener ought to sigh and exclaim and lament.⁠ ⁠… It would be even better to talk to women. Though they are silly creatures, they blubber at the first word.

“Let’s go out and have a look at the mare,” Iona thinks. “There is always time for sleep.⁠ ⁠… You’ll have sleep enough, no fear.⁠ ⁠…”

He puts on his coat and goes into the stables where his mare is standing. He thinks about oats, about hay, about the weather.⁠ ⁠… He cannot think about his son when he is alone.⁠ ⁠… To talk about him with someone is possible, but to think of him and picture him is insufferable anguish.⁠ ⁠…

“Are you munching?” Iona asks his mare, seeing her shining eyes. “There, munch away, munch away.⁠ ⁠… Since we have not earned enough for oats, we will eat hay.⁠ ⁠… Yes,⁠ ⁠… I have grown too old to drive.⁠ ⁠… My son ought to be driving, not I.⁠ ⁠… He was a real cabman.⁠ ⁠… He ought to have lived.⁠ ⁠…”

Iona is silent for a while, and then he goes on:

“That’s how it is, old girl.⁠ ⁠… Kuzma Ionitch is gone.⁠ ⁠… He said goodbye to me.⁠ ⁠… He went and died for no reason.⁠ ⁠… Now, suppose you had a little colt, and you were own mother to that little colt.⁠ ⁠… And all at once that same little colt went and died.⁠ ⁠… You’d be sorry, wouldn’t you?⁠ ⁠…”

The little mare munches, listens, and breathes on her master’s hands. Iona is carried away and tells her all about it.

Shtchiptsov, the “heavy father” and “good-hearted simpleton,” a tall and thickset old man, not so much distinguished by his talents as an actor as by his exceptional physical strength, had a desperate quarrel with the manager during the performance, and just when the storm of words was at its height felt as though something had snapped in his chest. Zhukov, the manager, as a rule began at the end of every heated discussion to laugh hysterically and to fall into a swoon; on this occasion, however, Shtchiptsov did not remain for this climax, but hurried home. The high words and the sensation of something ruptured in his chest so agitated him as he left the theatre that he forgot to wash off his paint, and did nothing but take off his beard.

When he reached his hotel room, Shtchiptsov spent a long time pacing up and down, then sat down on the bed, propped his head on his fists, and sank into thought. He sat like that without stirring or uttering a sound till two o’clock the next afternoon, when Sigaev, the comic man, walked into his room.

“Why is it you did not come to the rehearsal, Booby Ivanitch?” the comic man began, panting and filling the room with fumes of vodka. “Where have you been?”

Shtchiptsov made no answer, but simply stared at the comic man with lustreless eyes, under which there were smudges of paint.

“You might at least have washed your phiz!” Sigaev went on. “You are a disgraceful sight! Have you been boozing, or⁠ ⁠… are you ill, or what? But why don’t you speak? I am asking you: are you ill?”

Shtchiptsov did not speak. In spite of the paint on his face, the comic man could not help noticing his striking pallor, the drops of sweat on his forehead, and the twitching of his lips. His hands and feet were trembling too, and the whole huge figure of the “good-natured simpleton” looked somehow crushed and flattened. The comic man took a rapid glance round the room, but saw neither bottle nor flask nor any other suspicious vessel.

“I say, Mishutka, you know you are ill!” he said in a flutter. “Strike