The Schoolmistress, and Other Stories. Anton Pavlovich Chekhov

the hatstand and ran headlong downstairs.

      V

      Leaning against the fence, he stood near the house waiting for his friends to come out. The sounds of the pianos and violins, gay, reckless, insolent, and mournful, mingled in the air in a sort of chaos, and this tangle of sounds seemed again like an unseen orchestra tuning up on the roofs. If one looked upwards into the darkness, the black background was all spangled with white, moving spots: it was snow falling. As the snowflakes came into the light they floated round lazily in the air like down, and still more lazily fell to the ground. The snowflakes whirled thickly round Vassilyev and hung upon his beard, his eyelashes, his eyebrows. … The cabmen, the horses, and the passers-by were white.

      “And how can the snow fall in this street!” thought Vassilyev. “Damnation take these houses!”

      His legs seemed to be giving way from fatigue, simply from having run down the stairs; he gasped for breath as though he had been climbing uphill, his heart beat so loudly that he could hear it. He was consumed by a desire to get out of the street as quickly as possible and to go home, but even stronger was his desire to wait for his companions and vent upon them his oppressive feeling.

      There was much he did not understand in these houses, the souls of ruined women were a mystery to him as before; but it was clear to him that the thing was far worse than could have been believed. If that sinful woman who had poisoned herself was called fallen, it was difficult to find a fitting name for all these who were dancing now to this tangle of sound and uttering long, loathsome sentences. They were not on the road to ruin, but ruined.

      “There is vice,” he thought, “but neither consciousness of sin nor hope of salvation. They are sold and bought, steeped in wine and abominations, while they, like sheep, are stupid, indifferent, and don’t understand. My God! My God!”

      It was clear to him, too, that everything that is called human dignity, personal rights, the Divine image and semblance, were defiled to their very foundations—“to the very marrow,” as drunkards say—and that not only the street and the stupid women were responsible for it.

      A group of students, white with snow, passed him laughing and talking gaily; one, a tall thin fellow, stopped, glanced into Vassilyev’s face, and said in a drunken voice:

      “One of us! A bit on, old man? Aha-ha! Never mind, have a good time! Don’t be down-hearted, old chap!”

      He took Vassilyev by the shoulder and pressed his cold wet mustache against his cheek, then he slipped, staggered, and, waving both hands, cried:

      “Hold on! Don’t upset!”

      And laughing, he ran to overtake his companions.

      Through the noise came the sound of the artist’s voice:

      “Don’t you dare to hit the women! I won’t let you, damnation take you! You scoundrels!”

      The medical student appeared in the doorway. He looked from side to side, and seeing Vassilyev, said in an agitated voice:

      “You here! I tell you it’s really impossible to go anywhere with Yegor! What a fellow he is! I don’t understand him! He has got up a scene! Do you hear? Yegor!” he shouted at the door. “Yegor!”

      “I won’t allow you to hit women!” the artist’s piercing voice sounded from above. Something heavy and lumbering rolled down the stairs. It was the artist falling headlong. Evidently he had been pushed downstairs.

      He picked himself up from the ground, shook his hat, and, with an angry and indignant face, brandished his fist towards the top of the stairs and shouted:

      “Scoundrels! Torturers! Bloodsuckers! I won’t allow you to hit them! To hit a weak, drunken woman! Oh, you brutes! …”

      “Yegor! … Come, Yegor! …” the medical student began imploring him. “I give you my word of honor I’ll never come with you again. On my word of honor I won’t!”

      Little by little the artist was pacified and the friends went homewards.

      “Against my will an unknown force,” hummed the medical student, “has led me to these mournful shores.”

      “Behold the mill,” the artist chimed in a little later, “in ruins now. What a lot of snow, Holy Mother! Grisha, why did you go? You are a funk, a regular old woman.”

      Vassilyev walked behind his companions, looked at their backs, and thought:

      “One of two things: either we only fancy prostitution is an evil, and we exaggerate it; or, if prostitution really is as great an evil as is generally assumed, these dear friends of mine are as much slaveowners, violators, and murderers, as the inhabitants of Syria and Cairo, that are described in the ‘Neva.’ Now they are singing, laughing, talking sense, but haven’t they just been exploiting hunger, ignorance, and stupidity? They have—I have been a witness of it. What is the use of their humanity, their medicine, their painting? The science, art, and lofty sentiments of these soul-destroyers remind me of the piece of bacon in the story. Two brigands murdered a beggar in a forest; they began sharing his clothes between them, and found in his wallet a piece of bacon. ‘Well found,’ said one of them, ‘let us have a bit.’ ‘What do you mean? How can you?’ cried the other in horror. ‘Have you forgotten that to-day is Wednesday?’ And they would not eat it. After murdering a man, they came out of the forest in the firm conviction that they were keeping the fast. In the same way these men, after buying women, go their way imagining that they are artists and men of science. …”

      “Listen!” he said sharply and angrily. “Why do you come here? Is it possible—is it possible you don’t understand how horrible it is? Your medical books tell you that every one of these women dies prematurely of consumption or something; art tells you that morally they are dead even earlier. Every one of them dies because she has in her time to entertain five hundred men on an average, let us say. Each one of them is killed by five hundred men. You are among those five hundred! If each of you in the course of your lives visits this place or others like it two hundred and fifty times, it follows that one woman is killed for every two of you! Can’t you understand that? Isn’t it horrible to murder, two of you, three of you, five of you, a foolish, hungry woman! Ah! isn’t it awful, my God!”

      “I knew it would end like that,” the artist said frowning. “We ought not to have gone with this fool and ass! You imagine you have grand notions in your head now, ideas, don’t you? No, it’s the devil knows what, but not ideas. You are looking at me now with hatred and repulsion, but I tell you it’s better you should set up twenty more houses like those than look like that. There’s more vice in your expression than in the whole street! Come along, Volodya, let him go to the devil! He’s a fool and an ass, and that’s all. …”

      “We human beings do murder each other,” said the medical student. “It’s immoral, of course, but philosophizing doesn’t help it. Good-by!”

      At Trubnoy Square the friends said good-by and parted. When he was left alone, Vassilyev strode rapidly along the boulevard. He felt frightened of the darkness, of the snow which was falling in heavy flakes on the ground, and seemed as though it would cover up the whole world; he felt frightened of the street lamps shining with pale light through the clouds of snow. His soul was possessed by an unaccountable, faint-hearted terror. Passers-by came towards him from time to time, but he timidly moved to one side; it seemed to him that women, none but women, were coming from all sides and staring at him. …

      “It’s beginning,” he thought, “I am going to have a breakdown.”

      VI

      At home he lay on his bed and said, shuddering all over: “They are alive! Alive! My God, those women are alive!”

      He encouraged his imagination in all sorts of ways to picture himself the brother of a fallen woman, or her father; then a fallen woman herself, with her painted cheeks; and it all moved him to horror.

      It seemed to him that he must settle the question at once at all