The Collected Novellas & Short Stories of Anton Chekhov (200+ Titles in Multiple Translations). Anton Chekhov
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for eight roubles, but, there! I will let you have it for six…. A wonderfully good one!”
“Steady…. It’s loaded, you know!”
“Can I see Mr. Blistanov?” the piano-tuner asked as he went in.
“I am he!” said Bluebeard, turning to him. “What do you want?”
“Excuse my troubling you, sir,” began the piano-tuner in an imploring voice, “but, believe me, I am a man in delicate health, rheumatic. The doctors have ordered me to keep my feet warm …”
“But, speaking plainly, what do you want?”
“You see,” said the piano-tuner, addressing Bluebeard. “Er… you stayed last night at Buhteyev’s furnished apartments… No. 64 …”
“What’s this nonsense?” said King Bobesh with a grin. “My wife is at No. 64.”
“Your wife, sir? Delighted… .” Murkin smiled. “It was she, your good lady, who gave me this gentleman’s boots…. After this gentleman — the piano-tuner indicated Blistanov— “had gone away I missed my boots…. I called the waiter, you know, and he said: ‘I left your boots in the next room!’ By mistake, being in a state of intoxication, he left my boots as well as yours at 64,” said Murkin, turning to Blistanov, “and when you left this gentleman’s lady you put on mine.”
“What are you talking about?” said Blistanov, and he scowled. “ Have you come here to libel me?”
“Not at all, sir — God forbid! You misunderstand me. What am I talking about? About boots! You did stay the night at No. 64, didn’t you?”
“When?”
“Last night!”
“Why, did you see me there?”
“No, sir, I didn’t see you,” said Murkin in great confusion, sitting down and taking off the boots. “I did not see you, but this gentleman’s lady threw out your boots here to me… instead of mine.”
“What right have you, sir, to make such assertions? I say nothing about myself, but you are slandering a woman, and in the presence of her husband, too!”
A fearful hubbub arose behind the scenes. King Bobesh, the injured husband, suddenly turned crimson and brought his fist down upon the table with such violence that two actresses in the next dressing-room felt faint.
“And you believe it?” cried Bluebeard. “You believe this worthless rascal? O-oh! Would you like me to kill him like a dog? Would you like it? I will turn him into a beefsteak! I’ll blow his brains out!”
And all the persons who were promenading that evening in the town park by the Summer theatre describe to this day how just before the fourth act they saw a man with bare feet, a yellow face, and terror-stricken eyes dart out of the theatre and dash along the principal avenue. He was pursued by a man in the costume of Bluebeard, armed with a revolver. What happened later no one saw. All that is known is that Murkin was confined to his bed for a fortnight after his acquaintance with Blistanov, and that to the words “I am a man in delicate health, rheumatic” he took to adding, “I am a wounded man… .”
NERVES
Translation By Constance Garnett
DMITRI OSIPOVITCH VAXIN, the architect, returned from town to his holiday cottage greatly impressed by the spiritualistic séance at which he had been present. As he undressed and got into his solitary bed (Madame Vaxin had gone to an all-night service) he could not help remembering all he had seen and heard. It had not, properly speaking, been a séance at all, but the whole evening had been spent in terrifying conversation. A young lady had begun it by talking, apropos of nothing, about thought-reading. From thought-reading they had passed imperceptibly to spirits, and from spirits to ghosts, from ghosts to people buried alive…. A gentleman had read a horrible story of a corpse turning round in the coffin. Vaxin himself had asked for a saucer and shown the young ladies how to converse with spirits. He had called up among others the spirit of his deceased uncle, Klavdy Mironitch, and had mentally asked him:
“Has not the time come for me to transfer the ownership of our house to my wife?”
To which his uncle’s spirit had replied:
“All things are good in their season.”
“There is a great deal in nature that is mysterious and… terrible …” thought Vaxin, as he got into bed. “It’s not the dead but the unknown that’s so horrible.”
It struck one o’clock. Vaxin turned over on the other side and peeped out from beneath the bedclothes at the blue light of the lamp burning before the holy ikon. The flame flickered and cast a faint light on the ikonstand and the big portrait of Uncle Klavdy that hung facing his bed.
“And what if the ghost of Uncle Klavdy should appear this minute?” flashed through Vaxin’s mind. “But, of course, that’s impossible.”
Ghosts are, we all know, a superstition, the offspring of undeveloped intelligence, but Vaxin, nevertheless, pulled the bedclothes over his head, and shut his eyes very tight. The corpse that turned round in its coffin came back to his mind, and the figures of his deceased motherin-law, of a colleague who had hanged himself, and of a girl who had drowned herself, rose before his imagination…. Vaxin began trying to dispel these gloomy ideas, but the more he tried to drive them away the more haunting the figures and fearful fancies became. He began to feel frightened.
“Hang it all!” he thought. “Here I am afraid in the dark like a child! Idiotic!”
Tick… tick… tick… he heard the clock in the next room. The church-bell chimed the hour in the churchyard close by. The bell tolled slowly, depressingly, mournfully…. A cold chill ran down Vaxin’s neck and spine. He fancied he heard someone breathing heavily over his head, as though Uncle Klavdy had stepped out of his frame and was bending over his nephew…. Vaxin felt unbearably frightened. He clenched his teeth and held his breath in terror.
At last, when a cockchafer flew in at the open window and began buzzing over his bed, he could bear it no longer and gave a violent tug at the bellrope.
“Dmitri Osipitch, was wollen Sie?” he heard the voice of the German governess at his door a moment later.
“Ah, it’s you, Rosalia Karlovna!” Vaxin cried, delighted. “Why do you trouble? Gavrila might just …”
“Yourself Gavrila to the town sent. And Glafira is somewhere all the evening gone…. There’s nobody in the house…. Was wollen Sie doch?”
“Well, what I wanted… it’s… but, please, come in… you needn’t mind!… it’s dark.”
Rosalia Karlovna, a stout red-cheeked person, came in to the bedroom and stood in an expectant attitude at the door.
“Sit down, please… you see, it’s like this…. What on earth am I to ask her for?” he wondered, stealing a glance at Uncle Klavdy’s portrait and feeling his soul gradually returning to tranquility.
“What I really wanted to ask you was… Oh, when the man goes to town, don’t forget to tell him to… er… er… to get some cigarette-papers…. But do, please sit down.”
“Cigarette-papers? good…. Was wollen Sie noch?”
“Ich will… there’s nothing I will, but… But do sit down! I shall think of something else in a minute.”
“It is shocking for a maiden in a man’s room to remain…. Mr. Vaxin, you are, I see, a naughty man…. I understand…. To order cigarette-papers one does not a person wake…. I understand