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

villa. Even the sight of the table laid for supper did not soothe him.

      “Once in a lifetime such a chance has turned up,” he thought in agitation; “and then it’s been prevented! Now she is offended… crushed!”

      At supper Pavel Ivanitch and Mitya kept their eyes on their plates and maintained a sullen silence…. They were hating each other from the bottom of their hearts.

      “What are you smiling at?” asked Pavel Ivanitch, pouncing on his wife. “It’s only silly fools who laugh for nothing!”

      His wife looked at her husband’s angry face, and went off into a peal of laughter.

      “What was that letter you got this morning?” she asked.

      “I?… I didn’t get one… .” Pavel Ivanitch was overcome with confusion. “You are inventing… imagination.”

      “Oh, come, tell us! Own up, you did! Why, it was I sent you that letter! Honour bright, I did! Ha ha!”

      Pavel Ivanitch turned crimson and bent over his plate. “Silly jokes,” he growled.

      “But what could I do? Tell me that…. We had to scrub the rooms out this evening, and how could we get you out of the house? There was no other way of getting you out…. But don’t be angry, stupid…. I didn’t want you to be dull in the arbour, so I sent the same letter to Mitya too! Mitya, have you been to the arbour?”

      Mitya grinned and left off glaring with hatred at his rival.

      PANIC FEARS

       Table of Contents

      Translation By Constance Garnett

      DURING all the years I have been living in this world I have only three times been terrified.

      The first real terror, which made my hair stand on end and made shivers run all over me, was caused by a trivial but strange phenomenon. It happened that, having nothing to do one July evening, I drove to the station for the newspapers. It was a still, warm, almost sultry evening, like all those monotonous evenings in July which, when once they have set in, go on for a week, a fortnight, or sometimes longer, in regular unbroken succession, and are suddenly cut short by a violent thunderstorm and a lavish downpour of rain that refreshes everything for a long time.

      The sun had set some time before, and an unbroken gray dusk lay all over the land. The mawkishly sweet scents of the grass and flowers were heavy in the motionless, stagnant air.

      I was driving in a rough trolley. Behind my back the gardener’s son Pashka, a boy of eight years old, whom I had taken with me to look after the horse in case of necessity, was gently snoring, with his head on a sack of oats. Our way lay along a narrow by-road, straight as a ruler, which lay hid like a great snake in the tall thick rye. There was a pale light from the afterglow of sunset; a streak of light cut its way through a narrow, uncouth-looking cloud, which seemed sometimes like a boat and sometimes like a man wrapped in a quilt… .

      I had driven a mile and a half, or two miles, when against the pale background of the evening glow there came into sight one after another some graceful tall poplars; a river glimmered beyond them, and a gorgeous picture suddenly, as though by magic, lay stretched before me. I had to stop the horse, for our straight road broke off abruptly and ran down a steep incline overgrown with bushes. We were standing on the hillside and beneath us at the bottom lay a huge hole full of twilight, of fantastic shapes, and of space. At the bottom of this hole, in a wide plain guarded by the poplars and caressed by the gleaming river, nestled a village. It was now sleeping… . Its huts, its church with the belfry, its trees, stood out against the gray twilight and were reflected darkly in the smooth surface of the river.

      I waked Pashka for fear he should fall out and began cautiously going down.

      “Have we got to Lukovo?” asked Pashka, lifting his head lazily.

      “Yes. Hold the reins! …”

      I led the horse down the hill and looked at the village. At the first glance one strange circumstance caught my attention: at the very top of the belfry, in the tiny window between the cupola and the bells, a light was twinkling. This light was like that of a smoldering lamp, at one moment dying down, at another flickering up. What could it come from?

      Its source was beyond my comprehension. It could not be burning at the window, for there were neither ikons nor lamps in the top turret of the belfry; there was nothing there, as I knew, but beams, dust, and spiders’ webs. It was hard to climb up into that turret, for the passage to it from the belfry was closely blocked up.

      It was more likely than anything else to be the reflection of some outside light, but though I strained my eyes to the utmost, I could not see one other speck of light in the vast expanse that lay before me. There was no moon. The pale and, by now, quite dim streak of the afterglow could not have been reflected, for the window looked not to the west, but to the east. These and other similar considerations were straying through my mind all the while that I was going down the slope with the horse. At the bottom I sat down by the roadside and looked again at the light. As before it was glimmering and flaring up.

      “Strange,” I thought, lost in conjecture. “Very strange.”

      And little by little I was overcome by an unpleasant feeling. At first I thought that this was vexation at not being able to explain a simple phenomenon; but afterwards, when I suddenly turned away from the light in horror and caught hold of Pashka with one hand, it became clear that I was overcome with terror… .

      I was seized with a feeling of loneliness, misery, and horror, as though I had been flung down against my will into this great hole full of shadows, where I was standing all alone with the belfry looking at me with its red eye.

      “Pashka!” I cried, closing my eyes in horror.

      “Well?”

      “Pashka, what’s that gleaming on the belfry?”

      Pashka looked over my shoulder at the belfry and gave a yawn.

      “Who can tell?”

      This brief conversation with the boy reassured me for a little, but not for long. Pashka, seeing my uneasiness, fastened his big eyes upon the light, looked at me again, then again at the light… .

      “I am frightened,” he whispered.

      At this point, beside myself with terror, I clutched the boy with one hand, huddled up to him, and gave the horse a violent lash.

      “It’s stupid!” I said to myself. “That phenomenon is only terrible because I don’t understand it; everything we don’t understand is mysterious.”

      I tried to persuade myself, but at the same time I did not leave off lashing the horse. When we reached the posting station I purposely stayed for a full hour chatting with the overseer, and read through two or three newspapers, but the feeling of uneasiness did not leave me. On the way back the light was not to be seen, but on the other hand the silhouettes of the huts, of the poplars, and of the hill up which I had to drive, seemed to me as though animated. And why the light was there I don’t know to this day.

      The second terror I experienced was excited by a circumstance no less trivial… . I was returning from a romantic interview. It was one o’clock at night, the time when nature is buried in the soundest, sweetest sleep before the dawn. That time nature was not sleeping, and one could not call the night a still one. Corncrakes, quails, nightingales, and woodcocks were calling, crickets and grasshoppers were chirruping. There was a light mist over the grass, and clouds were scurrying straight ahead across the sky near the moon. Nature was awake, as though afraid of missing the best moments of her life.

      I walked along a narrow path at the very edge of a railway embankment. The moonlight glided over the lines which