The Chekhov Collection: Novellas, Short Stories, Plays, Letters & Diary. Anton Chekhov

their studies, had gone out into the world, and, of course, like respectable people, had long ago forgotten her. One of them was living in Paris, two were doctors, the fourth was an artist, and the fifth was said to be already a professor. Klotchkov was the sixth…. Soon he, too, would finish his studies and go out into the world. There was a fine future before him, no doubt, and Klotchkov probably would become a great man, but the present was anything but bright; Klotchkov had no tobacco and no tea, and there were only four lumps of sugar left. She must make haste and finish her embroidery, take it to the woman who had ordered it, and with the quarter rouble she would get for it, buy tea and tobacco.

      “Can I come in?” asked a voice at the door.

      Anyuta quickly threw a woollen shawl over her shoulders. Fetisov, the artist, walked in.

      “I have come to ask you a favour,” he began, addressing Klotchkov, and glaring like a wild beast from under the long locks that hung over his brow. “Do me a favour; lend me your young lady just for a couple of hours! I’m painting a picture, you see, and I can’t get on without a model.”

      “Oh, with pleasure,” Klotchkov agreed. “Go along, Anyuta.”

      “The things I’ve had to put up with there,” Anyuta murmured softly.

      “Rubbish! The man’s asking you for the sake of art, and not for any sort of nonsense. Why not help him if you can?”

      Anyuta began dressing.

      “And what are you painting?” asked Klotchkov.

      “Psyche; it’s a fine subject. But it won’t go, somehow. I have to keep painting from different models. Yesterday I was painting one with blue legs. ‘Why are your legs blue?’ I asked her. ‘It’s my stockings stain them,’ she said. And you’re still grinding! Lucky fellow! You have patience.”

      “Medicine’s a job one can’t get on with without grinding.”

      “H’m!… Excuse me, Klotchkov, but you do live like a pig! It’s awful the way you live!”

      “How do you mean? I can’t help it…. I only get twelve roubles a month from my father, and it’s hard to live decently on that.”

      “Yes… yes …” said the artist, frowning with an air of disgust; “but, still, you might live better…. An educated man is in duty bound to have taste, isn’t he? And goodness knows what it’s like here! The bed not made, the slops, the dirt… yesterday’s porridge in the plates… Tfoo!”

      “That’s true,” said the student in confusion; “but Anyuta has had no time to-day to tidy up; she’s been busy all the while.”

      When Anyuta and the artist had gone out Klotchkov lay down on the sofa and began learning, lying down; then he accidentally dropped asleep, and waking up an hour later, propped his head on his fists and sank into gloomy reflection. He recalled the artist’s words that an educated man was in duty bound to have taste, and his surroundings actually struck him now as loathsome and revolting. He saw, as it were in his mind’s eye, his own future, when he would see his patients in his consulting-room, drink tea in a large dining-room in the company of his wife, a real lady. And now that slop-pail in which the cigarette ends were swimming looked incredibly disgusting. Anyuta, too, rose before his imagination — a plain, slovenly, pitiful figure… and he made up his mind to part with her at once, at all costs.

      When, on coming back from the artist’s, she took off her coat, he got up and said to her seriously:

      “Look here, my good girl… sit down and listen. We must part! The fact is, I don’t want to live with you any longer.”

      Anyuta had come back from the artist’s worn out and exhausted. Standing so long as a model had made her face look thin and sunken, and her chin sharper than ever. She said nothing in answer to the student’s words, only her lips began to tremble.

      “You know we should have to part sooner or later, anyway,” said the student. “You’re a nice, good girl, and not a fool; you’ll understand… .”

      Anyuta put on her coat again, in silence wrapped up her embroidery in paper, gathered together her needles and thread: she found the screw of paper with the four lumps of sugar in the window, and laid it on the table by the books.

      “That’s… your sugar… “ she said softly, and turned away to conceal her tears.

      “Why are you crying?” asked Klotchkov.

      He walked about the room in confusion, and said:

      “You are a strange girl, really…. Why, you know we shall have to part. We can’t stay together for ever.”

      She had gathered together all her belongings, and turned to say goodbye to him, and he felt sorry for her.

      “Shall I let her stay on here another week?” he thought. “She really may as well stay, and I’ll tell her to go in a week;” and vexed at his own weakness, he shouted to her roughly:

      “Come, why are you standing there? If you are going, go; and if you don’t want to, take off your coat and stay! You can stay!”

      Anyuta took off her coat, silently, stealthily, then blew her nose also stealthily, sighed, and noiselessly returned to her invariable position on her stool by the window.

      The student drew his textbook to him and began again pacing from corner to corner. “The right lung consists of three parts,” he repeated; “the upper part, on anterior wall of thorax, reaches the fourth or fifth rib… .”

      In the passage some one shouted at the top of his voice: “Grigory! The samovar!”

      IVAN MATVEYITCH

       Table of Contents

      Translation By Constance Garnett

      BETWEEN five and six in the evening. A fairly well-known man of learning — we will call him simply the man of learning — is sitting in his study nervously biting his nails.

      “It’s positively revolting,” he says, continually looking at his watch. “It shows the utmost disrespect for another man’s time and work. In England such a person would not earn a farthing, he would die of hunger. You wait a minute, when you do come… .”

      And feeling a craving to vent his wrath and impatience upon someone, the man of learning goes to the door leading to his wife’s room and knocks.

      “Listen, Katya,” he says in an indignant voice. “If you see Pyotr Danilitch, tell him that decent people don’t do such things. It’s abominable! He recommends a secretary, and does not know the sort of man he is recommending! The wretched boy is two or three hours late with unfailing regularity every day. Do you call that a secretary? Those two or three hours are more precious to me than two or three years to other people. When he does come I will swear at him like a dog, and won’t pay him and will kick him out. It’s no use standing on ceremony with people like that!”

      “You say that every day, and yet he goes on coming and coming.”

      “But to-day I have made up my mind. I have lost enough through him. You must excuse me, but I shall swear at him like a cabman.”

      At last a ring is heard. The man of learning makes a grave face; drawing himself up, and, throwing back his head, he goes into the entry. There his amanuensis Ivan Matveyitch, a young man of eighteen, with a face oval as an egg and no moustache, wearing a shabby, mangy overcoat and no goloshes, is already standing by the hatstand. He is in breathless haste, and scrupulously wipes his huge clumsy boots on the doormat, trying as he does so to conceal from the maidservant a hole in his boot through which a white sock is peeping. Seeing the man of learning he smiles with that broad, prolonged, somewhat foolish smile which is