Selected Stories of Anton Chekov - By Anton Chekhov Page 0,128

only knew,” Kovrin said with vexation, “how grateful I am to you!”

He felt extremely irritated and, to avoid saying something excessive, quickly got up and went into the house. It was quiet, and the scent of nicotiana and jalap came through the open windows from the garden. Moonlight lay in green patches on the floor and on the grand piano in the vast dark hall. Kovrin recalled the raptures of last summer, when there had been the same smell of jalap and moonlight shining in the windows. To bring back last year’s mood, he went quickly to his study, lit a strong cigar, and told the servant to bring wine. But the cigar was bitter and disgusting in his mouth, and the wine did not taste the same as last year. That was what it meant to lose the habit! The cigar and two sips of wine made him dizzy, and his heart started pounding so that he had to take potassium bromide.

Before going to bed, Tanya said to him:

“My father adores you. You’re angry with him for something, and it’s killing him. Look: he’s aging not by the day but by the hour. I beg you, Andryusha, for God’s sake, for the sake of your late father, for the sake of my own peace, be nice to him!”

“I can’t and won’t.”

“But why?” asked Tanya, beginning to tremble all over. “Explain to me, why?”

“Because I find him unsympathetic, that’s all,” Kovrin said carelessly and shrugged his shoulders. “But let’s not talk about him, he’s your father.”

“I can’t, I can’t understand!” said Tanya, pressing her temples and staring at a single point. “Something inconceivable, something terrible is happening in our home. You’ve changed, you’re no longer yourself… You, an intelligent, extraordinary man, become irritated over trifles, get into squabbles … You become upset over such small things that I’m sometimes astonished and can’t believe it’s really you. Well, well, don’t be angry, don’t be angry,” she went on, frightened at her own words and kissing his hands. “You’re intelligent, kind, noble. You’ll be fair to my father. He’s so good!”

“He’s not good, he’s good-natured. Vaudeville uncles like your father, with well-fed, good-natured physiognomies, extremely hospitable and whimsical, used to touch me and make me laugh in stories and vaudevilles, and in life, but now I find them repulsive. They’re egoists to the marrow of their bones. What I find most repulsive is their well-fed look and that visceral, purely bullish or boarish optimism.”

Tanya sat down on the bed and lay her head on the pillow.

“This is torture,” she said, and it was clear from her voice that she was extremely tired and had difficulty speaking. “Not one peaceful moment since winter … My God, this is terrible! I’m suffering …”

“Yes, of course, I’m Herod and you and your dear papa are Egyptian infants.11 Of course!”

His face seemed ugly and unpleasant to Tanya. Hatred and a mocking expression did not become him. She had noticed even earlier that his face now lacked something, as if, since he cut his hair, his face had also changed. She wanted to say something offensive to him, but she caught herself at once feeling animosity, became frightened, and left the bedroom.

IX

Kovrin was awarded his own chair. The inaugural lecture was scheduled for the second of December, and the announcement was posted in the university corridor. But on the scheduled day he informed the director of studies by telegram that the lecture would not be delivered on account of illness.

He was bleeding from the throat. He had been spitting blood, but about twice a month he bled profusely, and then he became extremely weak and fell into somnolence. The illness did not frighten him very much, because he knew that his late mother had lived for ten years or even longer with the same illness; and the doctors assured him that it was not dangerous and merely advised him not to worry, to lead a regular life, and to talk less.

In January the lecture failed to take place for the same reason, and in February it was too late to begin the course. It had to be postponed until the next year.

He now lived not with Tanya but with another woman, who was two years older than he and looked after him like a child. His state of mind was placid, submissive; he willingly obeyed, and when Varvara Nikolaevna—that was his friend’s name—decided to take him to the Crimea, he agreed, though he had a presentiment that