The Collected Novellas & Short Stories of Anton Chekhov (200+ Titles in Multiple Translations). Anton Chekhov
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of girls always made us blush.
Spiridon spared no pains in measuring me. He measured me vertically and horizontally, as if he were about to hoop a barrel; he noted the details with a fat pencil ; adorned his note-book with triangular signs; and, having done with me, seized hold of my tutor, Yegor Alekseievitch Fobiedimsky. My unforgotten tutor was then at the age when sprouting moustaches are a serious question and clothes are a problem of gravity, so you may imagine Spiridon's sacred terror as he began his measurements. He forced Fobiedimsky to throw back his head and spread his legs in an inverted V, to raise his arms on high, and again to lower them. Spiridon measured him again and again, marching round him as a love-sick dove round its mate; and then fell upon his knees, and doubled himself into a hook. My exhausted mother, tortured by the noise, red from prolonged ironing, watched the endless measuring, and said with gravity —
“Be careful, Spiridon, God will punish you if you spoil the cloth! If you make a failure you will never be happy again!”
Spiridon got red in the face and sweated, because he was firmly convinced already that he would make a failure. For making my suit he charged one rouble and twenty kopecks, for Pobiedimsky's two roubles, we supplying cloth, lining, and buttons; and this seems moderate enough when you learn that Novostroefka was ten versts away, and that the tailor came to try on at least four times. When during these operations we dragged on the tight trousers and skimpy jackets, still decked with basting threads, my mother frowned critically, and exclaimed —
“God knows what the fashions nowadays are like! They're painful even to look at! If it weren't for your uncle's visit, I'd ignore the fashion,” And Spiridon, rejoiced that the fashions, not he, were guilty, shrugged his shoulders, and sighed as if to say —
“What are you to do? It's the spirit of the age.”
The tension in which we waited our guest can be compared only with the emotion of spirit-rappers expecting a ghost. . . . My mother complained of headache, cried all day, and, as for me, I could neither eat nor sleep; and I neglected my lessons. Even in dreams I thirsted to see a general, that is, a man with epaulets, a braided collar up to his ears, and a. naked sword — just such a general as hung above the drawing-room sofa, and glared from his threatening black eyes at all who dared to fece him. Alone Pobiedimsky felt at ease. He showed neither fright nor elation ; and sometimes, listening to mother's history of the Gundasoffs, said indifferently —
“Yes; it will be nice to have a new man to talk to.” All of us looked on ray tutor as an exceptional man. He was young — about twenty — pimpled and untidy, and he had a small forehead and an extraordinarily long nose. His nose indeed was so long that to look intently at anything he had to turn his head aside, as a bird. Despite these defects, the household believed that the whole province could not produce an abler, more cultivated, more gallant man. He had been through all six classes of the gymnasium, but was expelled from a veterinary institute before he had been there half a year. As the cause of his - expulsion was carefully concealed, those who liked him regarded him as a martyred, somewhat mysterious man. He spoke little, always on serious themes, ate meat during fasts, and looked with hauteur and contempt on the society around. This, indeed, did not hinder him accepting presents of clothes from my mother, or painting on my kites ugly faces with red teeth. My mother condemned his pride, but respected him for his brains.
Our guest arrived soon after his letter. At the beginning of May two carts laden with portmanteaux came from the railway station. So majestic were these portmanteaux that, unloading the carts, the drivers mechanically doffed their caps.
“I suppose,” I reasoned, “all these are full of uniforms and powder.” My conception of a general was indissolubly bound with cannons and powder.
On the morning of the 10th of May my nurse informed me in a whisper that uncle had come. I dressed quickly, washed myself recklessly, and without saying my prayers, rushed out of the room. In the hall I nearly collided vvith a tall, stout gentleman with fashionably trimmed whiskers and a smart overcoat. Frozen with sacred terror, and remembering the ceremony of greeting taught by my mother, I shuffled my feet, bowed deeply, and bent over his hand. But the gentleman refused to allow me to kiss his hand, and added that he was not my uncle, but only his servant, Piotr. The sight of this Piotr, who was better dressed than I or Pobiedimsky, caused me intense surprise, which survives indeed to this day, for I cannot understand how such solid, representative men with clever, severe faces, can serve as valets. Piotr told me that my uncle was in the garden with my mother. I rushed into the garden.
Nature, being unconscious both of the Gundasoff pedigree and of uncle's official rank, was much freer and more at ease than I. Tlie tumult in the garden reminded me of a fair. Innumerable starlings clove the air, hopped on the paths, and with noise and cries hunted the May-flies. Sparrows rustled in the lilac trees, whose delicate, perfumed blooms stretched out at my face. On all sides orioles sang, hoopoes and hawks flew. On any other occasion I should have hunted the dragon-flies or thrown stones at the crow on the hayrick close by the aspen, and bent its blunt nose, but now I was in no mood for such pranks. My heart palpitated; I felt a chill in my stomach; I prepared to see an epauletted hero with a naked sword and terrible menacing eyes.
Imagine my disappointment! By the side of my mother walked a little, slender fop in white jacket and trousers and white forage cap. With hands in pockets, head thrown back — sometimes almost running in front — he had the air of a mere youth. His figure showed extreme briskness and life, and treacherous age was betrayed only behind by a patch of silver-grey hair under the edge of his cap. Instead of a general's solidity and stilfiiess, there was a boyish nimbleness ; instead of a collar stiff" to the ears, an ordinary blue necktie. My mother and my uncle walked down the path and talked. I followed them, waiting patiently till one or the other should turn.
“What a ravishing little home you have, Claudia!” said my uncle. “How sweet! How charming! Had I known that you lived in such a paradise, nothing would have induced me to spend my summers abroad in past years.”
My uncle bent in two and smelt a tulip. Everything that met his eyes inspired, it seemed, interest and delight ; it was as if for the first time in life he had seen a garden and a sunny day. The strange man walked as if on springs and chattered without cease, so that my mother never spoke a word. At a corner of the path from behind an elder-bush suddenly appeared Pobiedimsky. His appearance was unexpected. My uncle started and took a step to the rear. My tutor wore his best cloak, in which, viewed from behind, he closely resembled a windmill. His air was solemn and dignified. Pressing, as a Spaniard, his hat to his breast, he took one step towards uncle and bowed, as marquises bow in melodramas — forward and a little on one side.
“I have the honour to introduce myself to your Excellency,” he said loudly. “I am a pedagogue, the tutor of your nephew, an ex-veterinary student, and a noble, Pobiedimsky!”
My tutor's polished manners pleased my mother intensely. She smiled and waited expectantly, hoping that Pobiedimsky would say something brilliant. But my tutor, who expected that his impressive greeting would be received equally impressively — that is, that my uncle, like a true general, would answer “H-m-m-m!” and extend two of his fingers — lost his self-possession when my uncle smiled at him genially and warmly pressed his hand. He muttered incoherently, coughed, and turned aside.
“He's too delightful for words,” said my uncle, smiling. “Just look at him ! He's put on his best manners, and finds himself a very clever man! I like it, I swear to God! What youthful aplomb, what realism in this droll magniloquence! And who is this little boy?” he asked, turning suddenly and catching sight of me.
“That is my Andriushenka,” said my mother, blushing. “My only treasure!”
I shuffled my feet on the gravel and bowed low.
“And a fine little fellow . . . a first-rate boy,” muttered my uncle, taking his hand from his lips and stroking my head. “So you're called Andriushenka. Indeed. . . . A fine little boy! I swear to God! . . . You learn your lessons?”
My mother, boasting and exaggerating, described my progress in learning and manners, and I walked beside my uncle, and, remembering the protocol, never ceased to bow to the ground. My mother hinted that with