Selected Stories of Anton Chekov - By Anton Chekhov Page 0,166

wretched, woebegone creature who had been taken in and given shelter here out of pity, and it was hard to believe that she was the heiress to five huge buildings.

“And so,” Korolev began, “we’ve come to take care of you. How do you do.”

He introduced himself and shook her hand—a big, cold, uncomely hand. She sat up and, obviously long accustomed to doctors, not caring that her shoulders and breast were uncovered, allowed herself to be auscultated.

“My heart pounds,” she said. “All last night, it was so terrible … I nearly died of fright! Give me something for it!”

“I will, I will! Calm down.”

Korolev examined her and shrugged his shoulders.

“Nothing’s wrong with your heart,” he said, “everything’s well, everything’s in order. Your nerves are probably acting up a bit, but that’s not unusual. I assume the attack is over now. Lie down and sleep.”

Just then a lamp was brought into the bedroom. The sick girl squinted at the light and suddenly clutched her head with her hands and burst into tears. And the impression of a woebegone and uncomely creature suddenly vanished, and Korolev no longer noticed either the small eyes or the coarsely developed lower face; he saw a soft, suffering look, which was both reasonable and touching, and the whole of her seemed shapely to him, feminine, simple, and he would have liked to comfort her now, not with medications, not with advice, but with a simple, tender word. Her mother embraced her head and pressed it to her. There was so much despair, so much grief in the old woman’s face! She, the mother, had nourished and raised her daughter, sparing nothing, had given her whole life to teaching her French, dancing, music, had invited dozens of tutors, the best doctors, had kept a governess, and now she could not understand where these tears came from, why so much torment, could not understand and was at a loss, had a guilty, anxious, despairing look, as if she had missed something else very important, had failed to do something else, to invite someone else, but whom—she did not know.

“Lizanka, again … again,” she said, pressing her daughter to her. “My dear, my darling, my child, what’s wrong? Have pity on me, tell me.”

They both wept bitterly. Korolev sat on the edge of the bed and took Liza’s hand.

“Come, is it worth crying?” he said tenderly. “There’s nothing in the world that merits these tears. Let’s not cry, now, there’s no need to …”

And he thought to himself:

“It’s time she was married …”

“Our factory doctor gave her potassium bromide,” said the governess, “but I’ve noticed that it makes her even worse. I think, if it’s for her heart, it should be those drops … I forget what they’re called … Convallarin, or whatever.”

And again there followed all sorts of details. She interrupted the doctor, prevented him from speaking; zeal was written all over her face, as if she assumed that, being the best-educated woman in the house, she had to engage the doctor in ceaseless conversation and about nothing but medicine.

Korolev became bored.

“I don’t find anything in particular,” he said, coming out of the bedroom and addressing the mother. “Since the factory doctor has been treating your daughter, let him continue. So far the treatment has been correct, and I see no need to change doctors. Why change? It’s an ordinary illness, nothing serious …”

He spoke unhurriedly, putting on his gloves, while Mrs. Lialikov stood motionless and looked at him with tear-filled eyes.

“It’s half an hour till the ten o’clock train,” he said. “I hope I won’t be late.”

“Can’t you stay with us?” she asked, and tears poured down her cheeks again. “It’s a shame to trouble you, but be so kind … for God’s sake,” she went on in a low voice, glancing at the door, “stay with us overnight. She’s my only … my only daughter … She frightened us last night, I can’t get over it … Don’t leave, for God’s sake …”

He was about to tell her that he had much work in Moscow, that his family was waiting for him at home; it was hard for him to spend the whole evening and night needlessly in a strange house, but he looked at her face, sighed, and silently began taking off his gloves.

All the lamps and candles were lighted for him in the reception room and the drawing room. He sat at the grand piano and leafed through the scores, then examined the paintings