Russia Literature Chekov

It was about nine years ago, during hay-making time, I and Pyotr Sergeevich, who was assistant magistrate, rode over to the station to fetch the post, one summer night.

The weather was clear, but when we were returning we heard thunder and saw an agry black cloud rushing toward us.

Against their dark background our house and the church looked white, and the tall poplars seemed as though turned to silver. There was the smell of rain and new-mown hay in the air. My companion was gay, he laughed and talked all sorts of nonsense. He said: "What if on our way we should come across some medieval castle, complete with turrets, where we could find shelter from the storm, and where in the end, we might even be struck by lightening, and be killed?" He would rejoice.

Suddenly the first wave passed over the fields, and a violent gust of wind raised the dust on the road. Pyotr Sergeevich laughed out loud and spurred his horse on.

"Excellent!" he shouted, "Excellent!"

Infected by his gaiety, and by the thought that I would soon be wet to the skin, and that I might be killed by lightening, I too, began to laugh.

The wind and the rapid riding against the storm took our breath away, making one feel like a bird, it tickled our breast. When we rode into the yard the wind had let up, but large drops of rain rattled the grass and on the roofs. There was not a soul near the stables.

Pyotr Sergeevich unsaddled the horses and led them to the stalls. Waiting for him to finish, I stood at the door looking at the slanting rain.

The delicious and exciting smell of the hay was more perceptible here than in the fields; the clouds and rain made it like dusk.

"What a peal!" Pyotr Sergeevich said, coming up to me after a particularly long clap of thunder, when it seemed that the sky had been ripped apart. "Wasn't that a peal?"

He stood beside me in the doorway, still breathing heavily from the rapid riding, and he looked at me. I noticed that he was admiring me.

"Natalia Vladimirovna," he said, "I would give anything I own if I could only remain thus and look at you forever. You are so beautiful today."

He gazed at me enraptured, with pleading in his eyes; his face was pale, and on his beard and moustache raindrops glistened, and they, too, seemed to look at me with love.

"I love you!", he said, "Ilove you and I am happy just looking at you. I know you cannot be my wife; I want nothing, I need nothing, but that you should know that I love you. Be silent, do not answer me, pay no attention to me, only know that you are dear to me, and allow me to look at you.

His enthusiasm was communicated to me. I looked at his inspired face; I heard his voice which was blended with the noise of the rain, and as if enchanted, I was unable to move.

I wished to look into his brilliant eyes and listen to him forever.

"You are silent, good, stay silent." he said.

I was happy. I laughed with pleasure and ran out into the pelting rain and ran to the house. He also laughed, and with a skip and a jump, he ran after me.

As noisy as two children, we both ran, wet and breathless, up the stairs, and ran into the room. My father and brother, who were unaccustomed to seeing me laughing and gay, looked at me with surprise, and they also burst out laughing.

The storm clouds passed away, the thunder became silent, but there were still raindrops glittering in Pyotr Sergeevich's beard. The whole of that evening until supper he sang, whistled, played noisily with the dog, chasing it around the rooms and just missed knocking the manservant, who was bringing in the samovar, off his legs. At supper he ate very much, talked very loud, and said that when you ate cucumbers in the winter you had a taste of spring in your mouth.

When I went to bed I lit my candle, opened the window wide and gave myself up to the undefined feelings that were in my heart. I remembered that I was free, healthy, distinguished, rich, and that I was loved. But chiefly that I was distinguished and rich-distinguished and rich-how nice that was, My God! Then feeling the cold that was borne to me together with the dew from the garden, I nestled down in bed and tried to understand whether or not I loved Pyotr Sergeevich, and not being able to understand anything I fell asleep.

In the morning when I saw a quivering spot of sunshine and the shadow of lime branches on my bed, all that had happened to me the day before arose vividly in my mind. Life appeared to me rich, varied, and full of attractions. I dressed quickly, singing, and ran into the garden.

And what came after that? After that there was nothing. In the winter, when we were living in town, Pyotr Sergeevich came to us rarely. The acquaintances of the country are only charming in the country in the summer. In town in winter they lose half their attraction. When in town you offer them tea, they seem to be in other people's coats, and stir their tea too long with their spoons. Sometimes in town Pyotr Sergeevich also spoke of love, but how different it sounded when spoken in the village. In town we felt more strongly the wall that separated us! I was distinguished and rich, and he was poor, he was not even noble, only the son of a deacon, he was only an assistant magistrate. We both, I from youth, and he, God knows why, considered this wall very high and thick. And he, when he came to us in town, smiled affectedly and criticized the higher society, or remained gloomily silent when anyone else was in the room. There is never a wall which can't be broken through, but the heroes of present day fiction, as far as I know them, are too timid, too slow, too lazy and fearsome, and they are too apt to be satisfied with the thought that they are failures, and that their whole life has duped them. In stead of struggling, they only criticize and call the world mean, and they forget that their own criticism gradually degenerates into meanness.

I was loved: happiness was near, and it appeared to be living shoulder to shoulder with me. I sang as I lived, not trying to understand myself, not knowing for what I waited, or what I wanted from life, and time sped on and on. People passed me with their love, bright days and warm nights flitted by. Nightingales sang, there was the scent of hay, and all that was so charming and wonderful in recollection passed quickly by me unvalued, as with anybody, leaving no trace and vanished like a mist. Where is it all?

My father died. I have grown old. All that pleased me, that caressed me, that gave me hope, the noise of the rain, the rolling of thunder, the thoughts of happiness, the words of love, all this has become a mere recollection, and I see before me a flat, empty plain. There is not a single living soul on the plain, and there on the distant horizon it is dark and terrible.

There was a bell. Pyotr Sergeevich had come to see me. When I see the country in winter and remember how green it came for me in summer, I whisper: "Oh, my darlings!"

And when I see people with whom I passed my spring, I grow sad and warm, and I whisper the same words.

Long since, by my father's influence, Pyotr Sergeevich had been transfered to town. He has grown somewhat older, somewhat thinner. Long ago he ceased to talk to me of love, he no longer talked of nonsense, he did not like his work. He was disappointed with something. He had given up expecting anything from life and he had no relish for existing. He sat down near the fire and looked silently into the flames. And I, not knowing what to say, asked"

"Well, what is it?"

"Nothing." he replied.

Then there was silence again. The red glow of the fire skipped about his sad face.

I remembered the past, and suddenly my shoulders began shaking, and I burst into bitter tears. I became unbearably sorry for myself, and for this man, and I passionately longed for that which had passed, and for that which life now refused us. And now I no longer thought that I was distinguished and rich.

I sobbed aloud, pressing my temples and murmured:

"My God, My God, life is ruined."

And he sat there in silence and did not say: "Do not cry." He understood that it was necessary to cry, and that the time had come for that. I saw in his eyes that he was sorry for me, and I, too, was sorry for him. And I was vexed for that poor timid wretch who had not been able to arrange either my life or his own.

When I conducted him to the door it appeared to me that he was purposely very long in the anteroom in putting on his fur coat. He kissed my hand a couple of times, and he looked long into my tear-stained eyes. I think at that moment he remembered the thunder storm, the streams of rain, our laughter, and my face as it was then. He wanted to say something to me, and he would have been glad to have said it, but he said nothing, he only shook his head and pressed my hand hard. God bless him!

When he had gone, I returned to my room and sat down again on the carpet in front of the fire. The red coals had changed to ashes and were going out. The frost knocked more fiercely at the windows, and the wind began singing a song about something in the chimney.

My maid came into the room, and thinking I had fallen asleep, called to me....

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