There lived in the yard a tame crane and two dogs. It must be said that
Anton Chekhov loved all animals very much with the exception of cats,
for whom he felt an invincible disgust. He loved dogs specially. His
dead "Kashtanka," his "Bromide," and "Quinine," which he had in
Melikhovo, he remembered and spoke of, as one remembers one's dead
friends. "Fine race, dogs!"--he would say at times with a good-natured
smile.
The crane was a pompous, grave bird. He generally mistrusted people, but
had a close friendship with Arseniy, Anton Chekhov's pious servant. He
would run after Arseniy anywhere, in the garden, orchard or yard and
would jump amusingly and wave his wide-open wings, performing a
characteristic crane dance, which always made Anton Pavlovitch laugh.
One dog was called "Tusik," and the other "Kashtan," in honor of the
famous "Kashtanka." "Kashtan" was distinguished in nothing but stupidity
and idleness. In appearance he was fat, smooth and clumsy, of a bright
chocolate color, with senseless yellow eyes. He would bark after "Tusik"
at strangers, but one had only to call him and he would turn on his back
and begin servilely to crawl on the ground. Anton Pavlovitch would give
him a little push with his stick, when he came up fawning, and would say
with mock sternness:
--"Go away, go away, fool.... Leave me alone."
And would add, turning to his interlocutor, with annoyance, but with
laughter in his eyes:
--"Wouldn't you like me to give you this dog? You can't believe how
stupid he is."
But it happened once that "Kashtan," through his stupidity and
clumsiness, got under the wheels of a cab which crushed his leg. The
poor dog came home running on three legs, howling terribly. His hind leg
was crippled, the flesh cut nearly to the bone, bleeding profusely.
Anton Pavlovitch instantly washed his wound with warm water and
sublimate, sprinkled iodoform and put on a bandage. And with what
tenderness, how dexterously and warily his big beautiful fingers touched
the torn skin of the dog, and with what compassionate reproof he soothed
the howling "Kashtan":
--"Ah, you silly, silly.... How did you do it? Be quiet ... you'll be
better ... little stupid ..."
I have to repeat a commonplace, but there is no doubt that animals and
children were instinctively drawn to Chekhov. Sometimes a girl who was
ill would come to A. P. and bring with her a little orphan girl of three
or four, whom she was bringing up. Between the tiny child and the sad
invalid man, the famous author, was established a peculiar, serious and
trusting friendship. They would sit for a long time on the bench, in the
verandah. Anton Pavlovitch listened with attention and concentration,
and she would whisper to him without ceasing her funny words and tangle
her little hands in his beard.
Chekhov was regarded with a great and heart-felt love by all sorts of
simple people with whom he came into contact--servants, messengers,
porters, beggars, tramps, postmen,--and not only with love, but with
subtle sensitiveness, with concern and with understanding. I cannot help
telling here one story which was told me by a small official of the
Russian Navigation and Trade Company, a downright man, reserved and
perfectly direct in receiving and telling his impressions.
It was autumn. Chekhov, returning from Moscow, had just arrived by
steamer from Sebastopol at Yalta, and had not yet left the deck. It was
that interval of chaos, of shouts and bustle which comes while the
gangway is being put in place. At that chaotic moment the porter, a
Tartar, who always waited on Chekhov, saw him from the distance and
managed to climb up on the steamer sooner than any one else. He found
Chekhov's luggage and was already on the point of carrying it down, when
suddenly a rough and fierce-looking chief mate rushed on him. The man
did not confine himself to obscene language, but in the access of his
official anger, he struck the Tartar on the face.
"And then an unbelievable scene took place," my friend told me--"the
Tartar threw the luggage on the deck, beat his breast with his fists
and, with wild eyes, was ready to fall on the chief mate, while he
shouted in a voice which rang all over the port:"
--"'What? Striking me? D'ye think you struck me? It is him--him, that
you struck!'"
"And he pointed his finger at Chekhov. And Chekhov, you know, was pale,
his lips trembled. He came up to the mate and said to him quietly and
distinctly, but with an unusual expression: 'Are not you ashamed!'
Believe me, by Jove, if I were that chief mate, I would rather be spat
upon twenty times in the face than hear that 'are not you ashamed.' And
although the mate was sufficiently thick-skinned, even he felt it. He
bustled about for a moment, murmured something and disappeared
instantly. No more of him was seen on deck."