Translated by Archibald J. Wolfe. Copyright, 1905,
by the Short Stories Co., Limited.
Alexander Smirnoff, the only son of his mother, holding in his hand
some object carefully wrapped in a newspaper, an angelic smile on his
youthful face, entered the consulting-room of Dr. Koshelkoff.
“Ah, dear youth!” exclaimed the doctor, “how are you? What is the good
news?”
Confused and excited, the young man replied:
“Doctor, my mother is sending her regards--I am her only son, you
know--You saved my life. Your skill--We hardly know how to thank you!”
“Say no more, dear boy!” said the doctor, beaming with delight. “I have
only done my duty. Anybody else would have done the same.”
“I am the only son of my mother. We are poor, and, of course, can not
repay you for your labors as you have deserved--and we feel it deeply.
At the same time my mother--I am her only son, doctor--my mother humbly
begs you to accept as a token of our gratitude a little statuette she
values very highly. It is a piece of antique bronze, and a rare work of
art.”
“My good fellow--” commenced the physician.
“No, doctor, you must not refuse,” continued Alexander, unfolding his
parcel. “You will deeply offend mother and myself, too. It is a little
beauty. A rare antique. We have kept it in memory of father, who was a
dealer in antique bronzes. My mother and myself continue the business.”
Finally the youth succeeded in freeing his present from its wrappings,
and placed it on the table with an air of great solemnity. It was
a moderately tall candelabrum of antique bronze and of artistic
workmanship. It represented two female figures somewhat scantily
attired, and bearing an air of frivolity to describe which I have
neither the required daring nor the temperament. The figures smiled
coquettishly, and looked as if they were ready to jump on the floor and
to engage in some wild frolic, were they not restrained by the task of
supporting the candle holder.
The doctor regarded his present for a few moments in silence, then
scratched his head and coughed irresolutely.
“A beautiful article, to be sure,” he finally said. “But you
know--what shall I say? Why, it is hardly the thing, you know. Talk of
_déshabillé_! This is beyond the bounds of propriety. The devil!”
“W-w-why?”
“Now, how could I put a thing like that on my table? It will corrupt my
residence.”
“Doctor, you surprise me,” answered Alexander, with an offended tone,
“What queer views of art! This is a work of art! Look at it! What
beauty, what delicacy of workmanship! It fills the soul with joy merely
to look at it; it brings tears to one’s eyes. Observe the movement, the
atmosphere, the expression!”
[Illustration: =Anton Chekhov=]
“I fully appreciate it, my boy,” interrupted the physician. “But you
know I am a man of family. I have children. A mother-in-law. Ladies
call here.”
“Of course, if you look at it from the point of view of the common
herd, you might regard it in a different light. But I beg of you, rise
above the mob. Your refusal would hurt the feelings of my mother and
of myself. I am her only son. You saved my life. We are asking you to
accept something we hold very dear. I only deplore the fact that we
have no companion piece to it.”
“Thank you, dear fellow, and thank your mother. I see that I can not
reason with you. But you should have thought of my children, you know,
and the ladies. But I fear you will not listen to arguments.”
“No use arguing, doctor,” replied the grateful patient, made happy by
the implied acceptance. “You put it right here, next to the Japanese
vase. What a pity I have not the pair. What a pity!”
When his caller departed the doctor thoughtfully regarded his unwelcome
present. He scratched his head and pondered.
“It is an exquisite thing, without doubt. It would be a pity to throw
it into the street. It is quite impossible to leave it here, though.
What a dilemma to be in. To whom could I give it? How to get rid of
it?”
Finally he bethought himself of Ukhoff, a dear friend of his school
days, and a rising lawyer, who had just successfully represented him in
some trifling case.
“Good,” said the doctor. “As a friend he refused to charge me a fee,
and it is perfectly proper that I should make him a present. Besides,
he is a single man and tremendously sporty.”
Losing no time, the doctor carefully wrapped up the candlestick and
drove to Ukhoff.
“There, old chap,” he said to the lawyer, whom he happily found at
home; “there I have come to thank you for that little favor. You
refused to charge me a fee, but you must accept this present in token
of my gratitude. Look--what a beauty!”
On seeing the present the attorney was transported with delight.
“This beats everything!” he fairly howled. “Hang it all, what inventive
genius! Exquisite, immense. Where did you get such a little gem?”
Having expressed his delight, the lawyer anxiously looked at his friend
and said:
“But, you know, you must not leave this thing here. I can not accept
it.”
“Why?” gasped the doctor.
“You know my mother calls here, clients, I would not dare to look my
servants in the face. Take it away.”
“Never! You must not refuse,” exclaimed the physician with the energy
of despair. “Look at the workmanship! Look at the expression! I will
not listen to any refusals. I will feel insulted.”
With these words the doctor hurried out of the house.
“A white elephant,” the lawyer mumbled sadly, while the doctor, rubbing
his hands with glee, drove home with an expression of relief.
The attorney studied his present at length and wondered what to do with
it.
“It is simply delicious, but I can not keep it. It would be vandalism
to throw it away, and the only thing to do is to give it away. But to
whom?
“I have it now,” he fairly shouted. “The very thing, and how
appropriate. I will take it to Shashkin, the comedian. The rascal is a
connoisseur in such things. And this is the night of his jubilee.”
In the evening the candelabrum, carefully wrapped, was taken to
Shashkin’s dressing-room by a messenger boy. The whole evening that
dressing-room was besieged by a crowd of men who came to view the
present. An incessant roar of delight was kept up within, sounding like
the joyous neighing of many horses. Whenever an actress approached the
door leading to the sanctum, and curiously knocked, Shashkin’s hoarse
voice was heard in reply:
“No, my dear, you can’t come in, I am not fully dressed.”
After the performance Shashkin shrugged his shoulders and said:
“What on earth shall I do with this disreputable thing? My landlady
would not tolerate it in the house. Here actresses call to see me. This
is not a photograph, you can’t hide it in the drawer.”
The hair-dresser listened sympathetically while arranging the
comedian’s hair.
“Why don’t you sell it?” he finally asked the actor. “A neighbor of
mine, an old lady, deals in such things, and she will pay you a good
price for it. An old woman by the name of Smirnoff, the whole town
knows her.”
Shashkin obeyed.
* * * * *
Two days later Dr. Koshelkoff sat peacefully in his study, enjoying his
pipe and thinking of things medical, when suddenly the door of his room
flew open, and Alexander Smirnoff burst upon his sight. His face beamed
with joy, he fairly shone, and his whole body breathed inexpressible
content.
In his hands he held an object wrapped in a newspaper.
“Doctor,” he began breathlessly, “imagine my joy! What good fortune!
Luckily for you my mother has succeeded in obtaining a companion piece
to your candelabrum. You now have the pair complete. Mother is so
happy. I am her only son, you know. You saved my life.”
Trembling with joy and with excess of gratitude, young Smirnoff placed
the candelabrum before the doctor. The physician opened his mouth,
attempted to say something, but the power of speech failed him--and he
said nothing.
THE SLANDERER
BY ANTON CHEKHOV
Translated by Herman Bernstein. Copyright, 1901,
by the Globe and Commercial Advertiser.
Sergey Kapitonich Akhineyev, the teacher of calligraphy, gave his
daughter Natalya in marriage to the teacher of history and geography,
Iván Petrovich Loshadinikh. The wedding feast went on swimmingly. They
sang, played, and danced in the parlor. Waiters, hired for the occasion
from the club, bustled about hither and thither like madmen, in black
frock coats and soiled white neckties. A loud noise of voices smote the
air. From the outside people looked in at the windows--their social
standing gave them no right to enter.
Just at midnight the host, Akhineyev, made his way to the kitchen to
see whether everything was ready for the supper. The kitchen was filled
with smoke from the floor to the ceiling; the smoke reeked with the
odors of geese, ducks, and many other things. Victuals and beverages
were scattered about on two tables in artistic disorder. Marfa, the
cook, a stout, red-faced woman, was busying herself near the loaded
tables.
“Show me the sturgeon, dear,” said Akhineyev, rubbing his hands and
licking his lips. “What a fine odor! I could just devour the whole
kitchen! Well, let me see the sturgeon!”
Marfa walked up to one of the benches and carefully lifted a greasy
newspaper. Beneath that paper, in a huge dish, lay a big fat sturgeon,
amid capers, olives, and carrots. Akhineyev glanced at the sturgeon and
heaved a sigh of relief. His face became radiant, his eyes rolled. He
bent down, and, smacking his lips, gave vent to a sound like a creaking
wheel. He stood a while, then snapped his fingers for pleasure, and
smacked his lips once more.
“Bah! The sound of a hearty kiss. Whom have you been kissing there,
Marfusha?” some one’s voice was heard from the adjoining room, and soon
the closely cropped head of Vankin, the assistant school instructor,
appeared in the doorway. “Whom have you been kissing here? A-a-ah! Very
good! Sergey Kapitonich! A fine old man indeed! With the female sex
tête-à-tête!”
“I wasn’t kissing at all,” said Akhineyev, confused; “who told you, you
fool? I only--smacked my lips on account of--in consideration of my
pleasure--at the sight of the fish.”
“Tell that to some one else, not to me!” exclaimed Vankin, whose
face expanded into a broad smile as he disappeared behind the door.
Akhineyev blushed.
“The devil knows what may be the outcome of this!” he thought. “He’ll
go about tale-bearing now, the rascal. He’ll disgrace me before the
whole town, the brute!”
Akhineyev entered the parlor timidly and cast furtive glances to see
what Vankin was doing. Vankin stood near the piano and, deftly bending
down, whispered something to the inspector’s sister-in-law, who was
laughing.
“That’s about me!” thought Akhineyev. “About me, the devil take him!
She believes him, she’s laughing. My God! No, that mustn’t be left like
that. No. I’ll have to fix it so that no one shall believe him. I’ll
speak to all of them, and he’ll remain a foolish gossip in the end.”
Akhineyev scratched his head, and, still confused, walked up to Padekoi.
“I was in the kitchen a little while ago, arranging things there for
the supper,” he said to the Frenchman. “You like fish, I know, and I
have a sturgeon just so big. About two yards. Ha, ha, ha! Yes, by the
way, I have almost forgotten. There was a real anecdote about that
sturgeon in the kitchen. I entered the kitchen a little while ago and
wanted to examine the food. I glanced at the sturgeon and for pleasure,
I smacked my lips--it was so piquant! And just at that moment the fool
Vankin entered and says--ha, ha, ha--and says: ‘A-a! A-a-ah! You have
been kissing here?’--with Marfa; just think of it--with the cook! What
a piece of invention, that blockhead. The woman is ugly, she looks like
a monkey, and he says we were kissing. What a queer fellow!”
“Who’s a queer fellow?” asked Tarantulov, as he approached them.
“I refer to Vankin. I went out into the kitchen--”
The story of Marfa and the sturgeon was repeated.
“That makes me laugh. What a queer fellow he is. In my opinion it is
more pleasant to kiss the dog than to kiss Marfa,” added Akhineyev,
and, turning around, he noticed Mzda.
“We have been speaking about Vankin,” he said to him. “What a queer
fellow. He entered the kitchen and noticed me standing beside Marfa,
and immediately he began to invent different stories. ‘What?’ he says,
‘you have been kissing each other!’ He was drunk, so he must have been
dreaming. ‘And I,’ I said, ‘I would rather kiss a duck than kiss Marfa.
And I have a wife,’ said I, ‘you fool.’ He made me appear ridiculous.”
“Who made you appear ridiculous?” inquired the teacher of religion,
addressing Akhineyev.
“Vankin. I was standing in the kitchen, you know, and looking at the
sturgeon--” And so forth. In about half an hour all the guests knew the
story about Vankin and the sturgeon.
“Now let him tell,” thought Akhineyev, rubbing his hands. “Let him do
it. He’ll start to tell them, and they’ll cut him short: ‘Don’t talk
nonsense, you fool! We know all about it.’”
And Akhineyev felt so much appeased that, for joy, he drank four
glasses of brandy over and above his fill. Having escorted his daughter
to her room, he went to his own and soon slept the sleep of an innocent
child, and on the following day he no longer remembered the story
of the sturgeon. But, alas! Man proposes and God disposes. The evil
tongue does its wicked work, and even Akhineyev’s cunning did not do
him any good. One week later, on a Wednesday, after the third lesson,
when Akhineyev stood in the teachers’ room and discussed the vicious
inclinations of the pupil Visyekin, the director approached him, and,
beckoning to him, called him aside.
“See here, Sergey Kapitonich,” said the director. “Pardon me. It isn’t
my affair, yet I must make it clear to you, nevertheless. It is my
duty--You see, rumors are on foot that you are on intimate terms with
that woman--with your cook--It isn’t my affair, but--You may be on
intimate terms with her, you may kiss her--You may do whatever you
like, but, please, don’t do it so openly! I beg of you. Don’t forget
that you are a pedagogue.”
Akhineyev stood as though frozen and petrified. Like one stung by a
swarm of bees and scalded with boiling water, he went home. On his
way it seemed to him as though the whole town stared at him as at one
besmeared with tar--At home new troubles awaited him.
“Why don’t you eat anything?” asked his wife at their dinner. “What are
you thinking about? Are you thinking about Cupid, eh? You are longing
for Marfushka. I know everything already, you Mahomet. Kind people have
opened my eyes, you barbarian!”
And she slapped him on the cheek.
He rose from the table, and staggering, without cap or coat, directed
his footsteps toward Vankin. The latter was at home.
“You rascal!” he said to Vankin. “Why have you covered me with mud
before the whole world? Why have you slandered me?”
“How; what slander? What are you inventing?”
“And who told everybody that I was kissing Marfa? Not you, perhaps? Not
you, you murderer?”
Vankin began to blink his eyes, and all the fibres of his face began to
quiver. He lifted his eyes toward the image and ejaculated:
“May God punish me, may I lose my eyesight and die, if I said even a
single word about you to any one! May I have neither house nor home!”
Vankin’s sincerity admitted of no doubt. It was evident that it was not
he who had gossiped.
“But who was it? Who?” Akhineyev asked himself, going over in his mind
all his acquaintances, and striking his chest. “Who was it?”