A Lady's Story
by Anton Chekhov
(1860-1904)
(1860-1904)
Nine years ago Pyotr Sergeyitch, the deputy prosecutor, and I were
riding towards evening in hay-making time to fetch the letters from the
station.
The weather was
magnificent, but on our way back we heard a peal of thunder, and saw an angry
black storm-cloud which was coming straight towards us. The storm-cloud was
approaching us and we were approaching it.
Against the
background of it our house and church looked white and the tall poplars shone
like silver. There was a scent of rain and mown hay. My companion was in high
spirits. He kept laughing and talking all sorts of nonsense. He said it would
be nice if we could suddenly come upon a medieval castle with turreted towers,
with moss on it and owls, in which we could take shelter from the rain and in
the end be killed by a thunderbolt....
Then the first wave
raced through the rye and a field of oats, there was a gust of wind, and the
dust flew round and round in the air. Pyotr Sergeyitch laughed and spurred on
his horse.
"It's
fine!" he cried, "it's splendid!"
Infected by his
gaiety, I too began laughing at the thought that in a minute I should be
drenched to the skin and might be struck by lightning.
Riding swiftly in a
hurricane when one is breathless with the wind, and feels like a bird, thrills
one and puts one's heart in a flutter. By the time we rode into our courtyard
the wind had gone down, and big drops of rain were pattering on the grass and
on the roofs. There was not a soul near the stable.
Pyotr Sergeyitch
himself took the bridles off, and led the horses to their stalls. I stood in
the doorway waiting for him to finish, and watching the slanting streaks of
rain; the sweetish, exciting scent of hay was even stronger here than in the
fields; the storm-clouds and the rain made it almost twilight.
"What a
crash!" said Pyotr Sergeyitch, coming up to me after a very loud rolling
peal of thunder when it seemed as though the sky were split in two. "What
do you say to that?"
He stood beside me
in the doorway and, still breathless from his rapid ride, looked at me. I could
see that he was admiring me.
"Natalya
Vladimirovna," he said, "I would give anything only to stay here a
little longer and look at you. You are lovely to-day."
His eyes looked at
me with delight and supplication, his face was pale. On his beard and mustache
were glittering raindrops, and they, too, seemed to be looking at me with love.
"I love
you," he said. "I love you, and I am happy at seeing you. I know you
cannot be my wife, but I want nothing, I ask nothing; only know that I love
you. Be silent, do not answer me, take no notice of it, but only know that you
are dear to me and let me look at you."
His rapture
affected me too; I looked at his enthusiastic face, listened to his voice which
mingled with the patter of the rain, and stood as though spellbound, unable to
stir.
I longed to go on
endlessly looking at his shining eyes and listening.
"You say
nothing, and that is splendid," said Pyotr Sergeyitch. "Go on being
silent."
I felt happy. I
laughed with delight and ran through the drenching rain to the house; he
laughed too, and, leaping as he went, ran after me.
Both drenched,
panting, noisily clattering up the stairs like children, we dashed into the
room. My father and brother, who were not used to seeing me laughing and
light-hearted, looked at me in surprise and began laughing too.
The storm-clouds
had passed over and the thunder had ceased, but the raindrops still glittered
on Pyotr Sergeyitch's beard. The whole evening till supper-time he was singing,
whistling, playing noisily with the dog and racing about the room after it, so
that he nearly upset the servant with the samovar. And at supper he ate a great
deal, talked nonsense, and maintained that when one eats fresh cucumbers in
winter there is the fragrance of spring in one's mouth.
When I went to bed
I lighted a candle and threw my window wide open, and an undefined feeling took
possession of my soul. I remembered that I was free and healthy, that I had
rank and wealth, that I was beloved; above all, that I had rank and wealth,
rank and wealth, my God! how nice that was!... Then, huddling up in bed at a
touch of cold which reached me from the garden with the dew, I tried to
discover whether I loved Pyotr Sergeyitch or not,... and fell asleep unable to
reach any conclusion.
And when in the morning
I saw quivering patches of sunlight and the shadows of the lime trees on my
bed, what had happened yesterday rose vividly in my memory. Life seemed to me
rich, varied, full of charm. Humming, I dressed quickly and went out into the
garden....
And what happened
afterwards? Why -- nothing. In the winter when we lived in town Pyotr
Sergeyitch came to see us from time to time. Country acquaintances are charming
only in the country and in summer; in the town and in winter they lose their
charm. When you pour out tea for them in the town it seems as though they are
wearing other people's coats, and as though they stirred their tea too long. In
the town, too, Pyotr Sergeyitch spoke sometimes of love, but the effect was not
at all the same as in the country. In the town we were more vividly conscious
of the wall that stood between us. I had rank and wealth, while he was poor,
and he was not even a nobleman, but only the son of a deacon and a deputy
public prosecutor; we both of us -- I through my youth and he for some unknown
reason -- thought of that wall as very high and thick, and when he was with us
in the town he would criticize aristocratic society with a forced smile, and
maintain a sullen silence when there was anyone else in the drawing-room. There
is no wall that cannot be broken through, but the heroes of the modern romance,
so far as I know them, are too timid, spiritless, lazy, and oversensitive, and
are too ready to resign themselves to the thought that they are doomed to
failure, that personal life has disappointed them; instead of struggling they
merely criticize, calling the world vulgar and forgetting that their criticism
passes little by little into vulgarity.
I was loved,
happiness was not far away, and seemed to be almost touching me; I went on
living in careless ease without trying to understand myself, not knowing what I
expected or what I wanted from life, and time went on and on.... People passed
by me with their love, bright days and warm nights flashed by, the nightingales
sang, the hay smelt fragrant, and all this, sweet and overwhelming in
remembrance, passed with me as with everyone rapidly, leaving no trace, was not
prized, and vanished like mist.... Where is it all?
My father is dead,
I have grown older; everything that delighted me, caressed me, gave me hope --
the patter of the rain, the rolling of the thunder, thoughts of happiness, talk
of love -- all that has become nothing but a memory, and I see before me a flat
desert distance; on the plain not one living soul, and out there on the horizon
it is dark and terrible....
A ring at the
bell.... It is Pyotr Sergeyitch. When in the winter I see the trees and
remember how green they were for me in the summer I whisper:
"Oh, my
darlings!"
And when I see
people with whom I spent my spring-time, I feel sorrowful and warm and whisper
the same thing.
He has long ago by
my father's good offices been transferred to town. He looks a little older, a
little fallen away. He has long given up declaring his love, has left off
talking nonsense, dislikes his official work, is ill in some way and
disillusioned; he has given up trying to get anything out of life, and takes no
interest in living. Now he has sat down by the hearth and looks in silence at
the fire....
Not knowing what to
say I ask him:
"Well, what
have you to tell me?"
"Nothing,"
he answers.
And silence again.
The red glow of the fire plays about his melancholy face.
I thought of the
past, and all at once my shoulders began quivering, my head dropped, and I
began weeping bitterly. I felt unbearably sorry for myself and for this man,
and passionately longed for what had passed away and what life refused us now.
And now I did not think about rank and wealth.
I broke into loud
sobs, pressing my temples, and muttered:
"My God! my
God! my life is wasted!"
And he sat and was
silent, and did not say to me: "Don't weep." He understood that I
must weep, and that the time for this had come.
I saw from his eyes
that he was sorry for me; and I was sorry for him, too, and vexed with this
timid, unsuccessful man who could not make a life for me, nor for himself.
When I saw him to
the door, he was, I fancied, purposely a long while putting on his coat. Twice
he kissed my hand without a word, and looked a long while into my tear-stained
face. I believe at that moment he recalled the storm, the streaks of rain, our
laughter, my face that day; he longed to say something to me, and he would have
been glad to say it; but he said nothing, he merely shook his head and pressed
my hand. God help him!
After seeing him
out, I went back to my study and again sat on the carpet before the fireplace;
the red embers were covered with ash and began to grow dim. The frost tapped
still more angrily at the windows, and the wind droned in the chimney.
The maid came in
and, thinking I was asleep, called my name.
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