Translated by Constance Garnett
Russian Literature – Children Books – Russian Poetry – Anton Chekhov – The Fit – Contents
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IV
“I had a talk with my mam’selle while we were dancing,” said the medico when all three came into the street. “The subject was her first love. He was a bookkeeper in Smolensk with a wife and five children. She was seventeen and lived with her pa and ma who kept a soap and candle shop.”
“How did he conquer her heart?” asked Vassiliev.
“He bought her fifty roubles’-worth of underclothes—Lord knows what!”
“However could he get her love-story out of his girl?” thought Vassiliev. “I can’t. My dear chaps, I’m off home,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know how to get on here. I’m bored and disgusted. What is there amusing about it? If they were only human beings; but they’re savages and beasts. I’m going, please.”
“Grisha darling, please,” the painter said with a sob in his voice, pressing close to Vassiliev, “let’s go to one more—then to Hell with them. Do come, Grigor.”
They prevailed on Vassiliev and led him up a staircase. The carpet and the gilded balustrade, the porter who opened the door, the panels which decorated the hall, were still in the same S——v Street style, but here it was perfected and imposing.
“Really I’m going home,” said Vassiliev, taking off his overcoat.
“Darling, please, please,” said the painter and kissed him on the neck. “Don’t be so faddy, Grigri—be a pal. Together we came, together we go. What a beast you are though!”
“I can wait for you in the street. My God, it’s disgusting here.”
“Please, please…. You just look on, see, just look on.”
“One should look at things objectively,” said the medico seriously.
Vassiliev entered the salon and sat down. There were many more guests besides him and his friends: two infantry officers, a grey, bald-headed gentleman with gold spectacles, two young clean-shaven men from the Surveyors’ Institute, and a very drunk man with an actor’s face. All the girls were looking after these guests and took no notice of Vassiliev. Only one of them dressed like Aïda glanced at him sideways, smiled at something and said with a yawn:
“So the dark one’s come.”
Vassiliev’s heart was beating and his face was burning. He felt ashamed for being there, disgusted and tormented. He was tortured by the thought that he, a decent and affectionate man (so he considered himself up till now), despised these women and felt nothing towards them but repulsion. He could not feel pity for them or for the musicians or the lackeys.
“It’s because I don’t try to understand them,” he thought. “They’re all more like beasts than human beings; but all the same they are human beings. They’ve got souls. One should understand them first, then judge them.”
“Grisha, don’t go away. Wait for us,” called the painter; and he disappeared somewhere.
Soon the medico disappeared also.
“Yes, one should try to understand. It’s no good, otherwise,” thought Vassiliev, and he began to examine intently the face of each girl, looking for the guilty smile. But whether he could not read faces or because none of these women felt guilty he saw in each face only a dull look of common, vulgar boredom and satiety. Stupid eyes, stupid smiles, harsh, stupid voices, impudent gestures—and nothing else. Evidently every woman had in her past a love romance with a bookkeeper and fifty roubles’-worth of underclothes. And in the present the only good things in life were coffee, a three-course dinner, wine, quadrilles, and sleeping till two in the afternoon….
Finding not one guilty smile, Vassiliev began to examine them to see if even one looked clever and his attention was arrested by one pale, rather tired face. It was that of a dark woman no longer young, wearing a dress scattered with spangles. She sat in a chair staring at the floor and thinking of something. Vassiliev paced up and down and then sat down beside her as if by accident.
“One must begin with something trivial,” he thought, “and gradually pass on to serious conversation….”
“What a beautiful little dress you have on,” he said, and touched the gold fringe of her scarf with his finger.
“It’s all right,” said the dark woman.
“Where do you come from?”
“I? A long way. From Tchernigov.”
“It’s a nice part.”
“It always is, where you don’t happen to be.”
“What a pity I can’t describe nature,” thought Vassiliev. “I’d move her by descriptions of Tchernigov. She must love it if she was born there.”
“Do you feel lonely here?” he asked.
“Of course I’m lonely.”
“Why don’t you go away from here, if you’re lonely?”
“Where shall I go to? Start begging, eh?”
“It’s easier to beg than to live here.”
“Where did you get that idea? Have you been a beggar?”
“I begged, when I hadn’t enough to pay my university fees; and even if I hadn’t begged it’s easy enough to understand. A beggar is a free man, at any rate, and you’re a slave.”
The dark woman stretched herself, and followed with sleepy eyes the lackey who carried a tray of glasses and soda-water.
“Stand us a champagne,” she said, and yawned again.
“Champagne,” said Vassiliev. “What would happen if your mother or your brother suddenly came in? What would you say? And what would they say? You would say ‘champagne’ then.”
Suddenly the noise of crying was heard. From the next room where the lackey had carried the soda-water, a fair man rushed out with a red face and angry eyes. He was followed by the tall, stout madame, who screamed in a squeaky voice:
“No one gave you permission to slap the girls in the face. Better class than you come here, and never slap a girl. You bounder!”
Followed an uproar. Vassiliev was scared and went white. In the next room some one wept, sobbing, sincerely, as only the insulted weep. And he understood that indeed human beings lived here, actually human beings, who get offended, suffer, weep, and ask for help. The smouldering hatred, the feeling of repulsion, gave way to an acute sense of pity and anger against the wrong-doer. He rushed into the room from which the weeping came. Through the rows of bottles which stood on the marble table-top he saw a suffering tear-stained face, stretched out his hands towards this face, stepped to the table and instantly gave a leap back in terror. The sobbing woman was dead-drunk.
As he made his way through the noisy crowd, gathered round the fair man, his heart failed him, he lost his courage like a boy, and it seemed to him that in this foreign, inconceivable world, they wanted to run after him, to beat him, to abuse him with foul words. He tore down his coat from the peg and rushed headlong down the stairs.
Russian Literature – Children Books – Russian Poetry – Anton Chekhov – The Fit – Contents
Copyright holders – Public Domain Book
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