The Greatest Novellas & Short Stories of Anton Chekhov. Anton Chekhov

as dark as the inside of a barrel, and the assistant procurator had to feel his way. He groped his way to the door of the nursery and waked the nurse.

      “Vassilissa,” he said, “you took my dressing-gown to brush last night — where is it?”

      “I gave it to Pelagea to brush, sir.”

      “What carelessness! You take it away and don’t put it back — now I’ve to go without a dressing-gown!”

      On reaching the kitchen, he made his way to the corner in which on a box under a shelf of saucepans the cook slept.

      “Pelagea,” he said, feeling her shoulder and giving it a shake, “Pelagea! Why are you pretending? You are not asleep! Who was it got in at your window just now?”

      “Mm … m … good morning! Got in at the window? Who could get in?”

      “Oh come, it’s no use your trying to keep it up! You’d better tell your scamp to clear out while he can! Do you hear? He’s no business to be here!”

      “Are you out of your senses, sir, bless you? Do you think I’d be such a fool? Here one’s running about all day long, never a minute to sit down and then spoken to like this at night! Four roubles a month … and to find my own tea and sugar and this is all the credit I get for it! I used to live in a tradesman’s house, and never met with such insult there!”

      “Come, come — no need to go over your grievances! This very minute your grenadier must turn out! Do you understand?”

      “You ought to be ashamed, sir,” said Pelagea, and he could hear the tears in her voice. “Gentlefolks … educated, and yet not a notion that with our hard lot … in our life of toil” — she burst into tears. “It’s easy to insult us. There’s no one to stand up for us.”

      “Come, come … I don’t mind! Your mistress sent me. You may let a devil in at the window for all I care!”

      There was nothing left for the assistant procurator but to acknowledge himself in the wrong and go back to his spouse.

      “I say, Pelagea,” he said, “you had my dressing-gown to brush. Where is it?”

      “Oh, I am so sorry, sir; I forgot to put it on your chair. It’s hanging on a peg near the stove.”

      Gagin felt for the dressing-gown by the stove, put it on, and went quietly back to his room.

      When her husband went out Marya Mihalovna got into bed and waited. For the first three minutes her mind was at rest, but after that she began to feel uneasy.

      “What a long time he’s gone,” she thought. “It’s all right if he is there … that immoral man … but if it’s a burglar?”

      And again her imagination drew a picture of her husband going into the dark kitchen … a blow with an axe … dying without uttering a single sound … a pool of blood! …

      Five minutes passed … five and a half … at last six… . A cold sweat came out on her forehead.

      “Basile!” she shrieked, “Basile!”

      “What are you shouting for? I am here.” She heard her husband’s voice and steps. “Are you being murdered?”

      The assistant procurator went up to the bedstead and sat down on the edge of it.

      “There’s nobody there at all,” he said. “It was your fancy, you queer creature… . You can sleep easy, your fool of a Pelagea is as virtuous as her mistress. What a coward you are! What a … .”

      And the deputy procurator began teasing his wife. He was wide awake now and did not want to go to sleep again.

      “You are a coward!” he laughed. “You’d better go to the doctor tomorrow and tell him about your hallucinations. You are a neurotic!”

      “What a smell of tar,” said his wife— “tar or something … onion … cabbage soup!”

      “Y-yes! There is a smell … I am not sleepy. I say, I’ll light the candle… . Where are the matches? And, by the way, I’ll show you the photograph of the procurator of the Palace of Justice. He gave us all a photograph when he said goodbye to us yesterday, with his autograph.”

      Gagin struck a match against the wall and lighted a candle. But before he had moved a step from the bed to fetch the photographs he heard behind him a piercing, heartrending shriek. Looking round, he saw his wife’s large eyes fastened upon him, full of amazement, horror, and wrath… .

      “You took your dressing-gown off in the kitchen?” she said, turning pale.

      “Why?”

      “Look at yourself!”

      The deputy procurator looked down at himself, and gasped.

      Flung over his shoulders was not his dressing-gown, but the fireman’s overcoat. How had it come on his shoulders? While he was settling that question, his wife’s imagination was drawing another picture, awful and impossible: darkness, stillness, whispering, and so on, and so on.

      A TRIVIAL INCIDENT

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      Translation By Constance Garnett

      IT was a sunny August midday as, in company with a Russian prince who had come down in the world, I drove into the immense so-called Shabelsky pine-forest where we were intending to look for woodcocks. In virtue of the part he plays in this story my poor prince deserves a detailed description. He was a tall, dark man, still youngish, though already somewhat battered by life; with long moustaches like a police captain’s; with prominent black eyes, and with the manners of a retired army man. He was a man of Oriental type, not very intelligent, but straightforward and honest, not a bully, not a fop, and not a rake — virtues which, in the eyes of the general public, are equivalent to a certificate of being a nonentity and a poor creature. People generally did not like him (he was never spoken of in the district, except as “the illustrious duffer”). I personally found the poor prince extremely nice with his misfortunes and failures, which made up indeed his whole life. First of all he was poor. He did not play cards, did not drink, had no occupation, did not poke his nose into anything, and maintained a perpetual silence but yet he had somehow succeeded in getting through thirty to forty thousand roubles left him at his father’s death. God only knows what had become of the money. All that I can say is that owing to lack of supervision a great deal was stolen by stewards, bailiffs, and even footmen; a great deal went on lending money, giving bail, and standing security. There were few landowners in the district who did not owe him money. He gave to all who asked, and not so much from good nature or confidence in people as from exaggerated gentlemanliness as though he would say: “Take it and feel how comme il faut I am!” By the time I made his acquaintance he had got into debt himself, had learned what it was like to have a second mortgage on his land, and had sunk so deeply into difficulties that there was no chance of his ever getting out of them again. There were days when he had no dinner, and went about with an empty cigar-holder, but he was always seen clean and fashionably dressed, and always smelt strongly of ylang-ylang.

      The prince’s second misfortune was his absolute solitariness. He was not married, he had no friends nor relations. His silent and reserved character and his comme il faut deportment, which became the more conspicuous the more anxious he was to conceal his poverty, prevented him from becoming intimate with people. For love affairs he was too heavy, spiritless, and cold, and so rarely got on with women….

      When we reached the forest this prince and I got out of the chaise and walked along a narrow woodland path which was hidden among huge ferns. But before we had gone a hundred paces a tall, lank figure with a long oval face, wearing a shabby reefer jacket, a straw hat, and patent leather boots, rose up from