The Chekhov Collection: Novellas, Short Stories, Plays, Letters & Diary. Anton Chekhov
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she cried. "You say I am a wicked creature who has ruined your husband, but I swear to you before God I have never had the least benefit from him ! Mota is the only girl in our chorus who has a rich friend, the rest of us all live on bread and water. Your husband is an educated, pleasant gentleman, that's why I received him. We can't pick and choose."
"I want the jewellery; give me the jewellery! I am weeping, I am humiliating myself; see, I shall fall on my knees before you ! "
Pasha screamed with terror and waved her arms. She felt that this pale, beautiful lady, who spoke the same refined language that people did in plays, might really fall on her knees before her, and for the very reason that she was so proud and high-bred, she would exalt herself by doing this, and degrade the little singer.
"Yes, yes, I'll give you the jewellery!" Pasha cried hastily, wiping her eyes. "Take it, but it did not come from your husband ! I got it from other visitors. But take it, if you want it ! "
Pasha pulled out an upper drawer of the bureau, and took from it a diamond brooch, a string of corals, two or three rings, and a bracelet. These she handed to the lady.
"Here is the jewellery, but I tell you again your husband never gave me a thing. Take it, and may you be the richer for having it ! " Pasha went on, offended by the lady's threat that she would go down on her knees. "You are a lady and his lawful wife—keep him at home then ! The idea of it ! As if I had asked him to come here ! He came because he wanted to!"
The lady looked through her tears at the jewellery that Pasha had handed her and said:
"This isn't all. There is scarcely five hundred roubles' worth here."
Pasha violently snatched a gold watch, a cigarette-case, and a set of studs out of the drawer and flung up her arms, exclaiming:
"Now I am cleaned out ! Look for yourself !"
Her visitor sighed. With trembling hands she wrapped the trinkets in her handkerchief, and went out without a word, without even a nod.
The door of the adjoining room opened and Kolpakoff came out. His face was pale and his head was shaking nervously, as if he had just swallowed a very bitter draught. His eyes were full of tears.
"I'd like to know what you ever gave me!" Pasha attacked him vehemently. "When did you ever give me the smallest present?"
"Presents—they are a detail, presents!" Kolpakoff cried, his head still shaking. "Oh, my God, she wept before you, she abased herself!"
"I ask you again: what have you ever given me?" screamed Pasha.
"My God, she—a respectable, a proud woman, was actually ready to fall on her knees before—before this—wench ! And I have brought her to this ! I allowed it !"
He seized his head in his hands.
"No," he groaned out, "I shall never forgive myself for this—never! Get away from me, wretch!" he cried, backing away from Pasha with horror, and keeping her off with outstretched, trembling hands. "She was ready to go down on her knees, and before whom?—Before you! Oh, my God!"
He threw on his coat and, pushing Pasha contemptuously aside, strode to the door and went out.
Pasha flung herself down on the sofa and burst into loud wails. She already regretted the things she had given away so impulsively, and her feelings were hurt. She remembered that a merchant had beaten her three years ago for nothing, yes, absolutely for nothing, and at that thought she wept louder than ever.
THE CHORUS GIRL
[trans. by Constance Garnett]
ONE day when she was younger and better-looking, and when her voice was stronger, Nikolay Petrovitch Kolpakov, her adorer, was sitting in the outer room in her summer villa. It was intolerably hot and stifling. Kolpakov, who had just dined and drunk a whole bottle of inferior port, felt ill-humoured and out of sorts. Both were bored and waiting for the heat of the day to be over in order to go for a walk.
All at once there was a sudden ring at the door. Kolpakov, who was sitting with his coat off, in his slippers, jumped up and looked inquiringly at Pasha.
“It must be the postman or one of the girls,” said the singer.
Kolpakov did not mind being found by the postman or Pasha’s lady friends, but by way of precaution gathered up his clothes and went into the next room, while Pasha ran to open the door. To her great surprise in the doorway stood, not the postman and not a girl friend, but an unknown woman, young and beautiful, who was dressed like a lady, and from all outward signs was one.
The stranger was pale and was breathing heavily as though she had been running up a steep flight of stairs.
“What is it?” asked Pasha.
The lady did not at once answer. She took a step forward, slowly looked about the room, and sat down in a way that suggested that from fatigue, or perhaps illness, she could not stand; then for a long time her pale lips quivered as she tried in vain to speak.
“Is my husband here?” she asked at last, raising to Pasha her big eyes with their red tear-stained lids.
“Husband?” whispered Pasha, and was suddenly so frightened that her hands and feet turned cold. “What husband?” she repeated, beginning to tremble.
“My husband,… Nikolay Petrovitch Kolpakov.”
“N… no, madam…. I… I don’t know any husband.”
A minute passed in silence. The stranger several times passed her handkerchief over her pale lips and held her breath to stop her inward trembling, while Pasha stood before her motionless, like a post, and looked at her with astonishment and terror.
“So you say he is not here?” the lady asked, this time speaking with a firm voice and smiling oddly.
“I… I don’t know who it is you are asking about.”
“You are horrid, mean, vile …” the stranger muttered, scanning Pasha with hatred and repulsion. “Yes, yes… you are horrid. I am very, very glad that at last I can tell you so!”
Pasha felt that on this lady in black with the angry eyes and white slender fingers she produced the impression of something horrid and unseemly, and she felt ashamed of her chubby red cheeks, the pockmark on her nose, and the fringe on her forehead, which never could be combed back. And it seemed to her that if she had been thin, and had had no powder on her face and no fringe on her forehead, then she could have disguised the fact that she was not “respectable,” and she would not have felt so frightened and ashamed to stand facing this unknown, mysterious lady.
“Where is my husband?” the lady went on. “Though I don’t care whether he is here or not, but I ought to tell you that the money has been missed, and they are looking for Nikolay Petrovitch…. They mean to arrest him. That’s your doing!”
The lady got up and walked about the room in great excitement. Pasha looked at her and was so frightened that she could not understand.
“He’ll be found and arrested to-day,” said the lady, and she gave a sob, and in that sound could be heard her resentment and vexation. “I know who has brought him to this awful position! Low, horrid creature! Loathsome, mercenary hussy!” The lady’s lips worked and her nose wrinkled up with disgust. “I am helpless, do you hear, you low woman?… I am helpless; you are stronger than I am, but there is One to defend me and my children! God sees all! He is just! He will punish you for every tear I have shed, for all my sleepless nights! The time will come; you will think of me! …”
Silence followed again. The lady walked about the room and wrung her hands, while Pasha still gazed blankly at her in amazement, not understanding and expecting something terrible.
“I know nothing about it, madam,” she said, and suddenly burst into