The Chekhov Collection: Novellas, Short Stories, Plays, Letters & Diary. Anton Chekhov

occupations, his industry was a miracle. Rising at nine o'clock, he sat at once at his desk, and worked steadily till dinner. After dinner he resumed his work, and continued it till late at night. Sometimes I peered through the keyhole; and always saw the same scene: my uncle sat at his desk and worked; and his work seemed always the same: with one hand he wrote, with the other he turned over the pages of a book; and — what seemed strangest to me — his body moved without cease; he swung his leg as a pendulum, whistled and nodded his head in time. His face expressed levity and abstraction, as if he were playing noughts and crosses. He always wore the same short, smart jacket and the same well-tied necktie, and even through the keyhole I could smell his delicate, feminine perfumes. He left his room only to dine, and then ate hardly anything.

      “I can't understand your uncle,” complained my mother. “Every day for him alone we kill a turkey and pigeons, and I make compotes with my own hands; but all he touches is a plate of bouillon and a piece of bread, and then goes back to his desk. He'll die of starvation. When I argue with him about it he only smiles and jokes. No, he doesn't like our food!”

      Evening was pleasanter than day. At sunset when long shadows lay across the road, Tatiana Ivanovna, Pobiedimsky, and I sat on the steps of the wing. Till dark, we kept silence — indeed, what was there fresh to say? — the one new theme, my uncle's visit, had been worn threadbare. Pobiedimsky kept his eyes on Tatiana Ivanovna's face and sighed unceasingly. At that time I misinterpreted these sighs, and missed their real meaning; afterwards they explained much.

      When the long shadows merged in the general gloom, Feodor, the steward, returned from shooting or from the farm. Feodor always impressed me as a savage, terrible person. The son of a Russianised gipsy, swarthy, with big black eyes and a curly ill-kept beard, he was nicknamed "devilkin" by the Kotchuef ka peasants. His ways were as gipsy as his face. He was restless at home; and whole days wandered about, shooting game, or simply walking across country. Morose, bilious, and taciturn, he feared no one and respected no authority. To my mother he was openly rude, he addressed me as “thou,” and held my tutor's learning in contempt. Looking on him as a delicate, excitable man, we forgave him all this; and my mother liked him, because, notwithstanding his gipsy ways, he was ideally honest and hard - working. He loved his Tatiana Ivanovna with a gipsy's love, but his affection expressed itself darkly, as if it caused him pain. Indeed, in our presence he showed no regard for his wife, but stared at her steadily and viciously and contorted his mouth.

      On returning from the farm he set down his gun noisily and viciously in the wing, came out to us on the stairs, and sat beside his wife. After a minute's rest, he put a few questions about housekeeping, and relapsed into silence.

      “Let us have a song.”

      My tutor played the guitar, and, in the thick, bass voice of a church clerk, sang “Among the level valleys.” All joined in. The tutor sang bass, Feodor in a hardly audible tenor, and I soprano, in one voice with Tatiana Ivanovna.

      When the sky was covered with stars and the frogs ceased croaking, supper was brought from the kitchen. We went indoors and ate. My tutor and the gipsy ate greedily and so noisily that it was hard to judge whether they were eating bones or merely crunching their jaws. Tatiana Ivanovna and I barely finished our portions. After supper the wing sank to deep sleep.

      Once — it was at the end of May — we sad on the steps and waited for supper, when a shadow fell across us, and suddenly as if sprung out of the gi'ound appeared GundasofF. For a second he looked at us steadfastly, then waved his hands, and smiled a merry smile.

      “An, idyll!” he exclaimed. “They sing; they dream of the moon ! It's irresistible, I swear to God! May I sit with you and dream?”

      We exchanged looks, but said nothing. My uncle seated himself on the lowest step, yawned, and looked at the sky. At first silence reigned; and it was Fobiedimskv, long watching for an opportunity to speak with some one new, who broke it. For such intellectxial conversation Pobiedimsky had only one theme — epizooty. As a man who has been in a crowd a thousand strong sometimes remembers one face in particular, so Pobiedimsky, of all he had read at the Institute during his six months' studies, retained only one phrase:

      “Epizooty is the cause of untold loss to agriculture. In combating it the public must itself walk hand in hand with the authorities.”

      Before saying this to Gundasoff, my tutor thrice cleared his throat, and pulled his cloak nervously around him. When he had heard about epizooty my uncle looked earnestly at Pobiedimsky, and emitted a queer sound through his nose.

      “I swear to God! . . .” he stammered, looking at us as if we were manikins. “This is indeed the real life. . . . This is what life should really be. And you, why are you so silent, Pelageya Ivanovna?” he said, turning to Tatiana Ivanovna, who reddened and coughed.

      “Talk, ladies and gentlemen; sing . . . play! Lose no time! Time, the rascal, is flying . . . he won't wait. I swear to God — before you've had time to turn your head, old age is on you. . . . It's too late then to live! Isn't that so, Pelageya Ivanovna? On no account sit still and keep silence. . . .”

      Supper was brought in from the kitchen. Uncle followed us into the wing, and, for company's sake, ate five curd-fritters and a duck's wing. As he ate he looked at us. We seemed to inspire nothing but rapture and emotion. The worst nonsense of my tutor, every act of Tatiana Ivanovna, he found charming and entrancing. When after supper Tatiana Ivanovna sat quietly in a corner and knitted away, he kept his eyes on her fingers and chattered without cease.

      “You, my friends, hurry up; make haste to live! God forbid that you should sacrifice to-day for to-morrow! The present is yours; it brings youth, health, ardour — the future is a mirage, smoke! As soon as you reach the age of twenty you must begin to live!”

      Tatiana Ivanovna dropped a knitting-needle. My uncle hopped from his seat, recovered and restored it, with a bow which told me for the first time that there were men in the world more gallant than Pobiedimsky.

      “Yes,” continued my uncle. “Love, mairy ! . . . Play the fool ! Follies are much more vital and sane than labours such as mine, saner far than our efforts to lead a rational life. . . .”

      My uncle spoke much, in fact at such length that we soon grew tired, and I sat aside on a box, listened, and dreamed. I was ofiended because he never once turned his attention on me. He stayed in the wing until two in the morning, when I, no longer able to resist my drowsiness, slept soundly.

      From that day on, my uncle came to the wing every night. He sang with us, supped with us, and stayed till two in the morning, chattering incessantly of one and the same subject. His night work was forgotten, and at the end of June, by which time he had learnt to eat my mother's turkeys and compotes, his daily occupation was also neglected. He tore himself from his desk, and rushed, so to speak, into “life,” By day he marched about the garden, whistled, and hindered the workmen, forcing them to tell him stories. When Tatiana Ivanovna came within sight, he ran up to her, and if she carried a load, offered to help her, causing her endless confusion.

      The longer summer lasted the more frivolous, lively, and abstracted grew my uncle. Pobiedimsky was quickly disillusioned.

      “As a man — one-sided,” was his verdict. “No one would believe that he stands on the high steps of the official hierarchy. He doesn't even speak well. After every word he adds ‘I swear to God!’ No, I don't like him.”

      From the night of my uncle's first visit to the wing, Feodor and my tutor changed noticeably. Feodor gave up shooting, returned early from his work, and his taciturnity increased; and, when my uncle was present, looked still more viciously at his wife, Pobiedimsky ceased to speak about epizootic diseases, frowned, and sometimes smiled ironically.

      “Here comes our mouse-foal!” he growled once, as uncle approached the wing.

      Searching for an explanation, I concluded that both had taken offence. My uncle confused their names, and to the day of his departure had not learnt which was my tutor and which Tatiana Ivanovna's husband. As for Tatiana Ivanovna, he called her indiscriminately “Nastasya,” “Pelageya,” and “Yevdokia.” In his emotion and delight he treated all four of us as