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Anton Chekhov An Enigmatic Nature

AN ENIGMATIC NATURE

Anton Chekhov

On the red velvet seat of a first-class railway carriage a pretty

lady sits half reclining. An expensive fluffy fan trembles in her

tightly closed fingers, a pince-nez keeps dropping off her pretty

little nose, the brooch heaves and falls on her bosom, like a boat

on the ocean. She is greatly agitated.

On the seat opposite sits the Provincial Secretary of Special

Commissions, a budding young author, who from time to time publishes

long stories of high life, or "Novelli" as he calls them, in the

leading paper of the province. He is gazing into her face, gazing

intently, with the eyes of a connoisseur. He is watching, studying,

catching every shade of this exceptional, enigmatic nature. He

understands it, he fathoms it. Her soul, her whole psychology lies

open before him.

"Oh, I understand, I understand you to your inmost depths!" says

the Secretary of Special Commissions, kissing her hand near the

bracelet. "Your sensitive, responsive soul is seeking to escape

from the maze of ---- Yes, the struggle is terrific, titanic. But

do not lose heart, you will be triumphant! Yes!"

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Anton Chekhov An Enigmatic Nature

"Write about me, Voldemar!" says the pretty lady, with a mournful

smile. "My life has been so full, so varied, so chequered. Above

all, I am unhappy. I am a suffering soul in some page of Dostoevsky.

Reveal my soul to the world, Voldemar. Reveal that hapless soul.

You are a psychologist. We have not been in the train an hour

together, and you have already fathomed my heart."

"Tell me! I beseech you, tell me!"

"Listen. My father was a poor clerk in the Service. He had a good

heart and was not without intelligence; but the spirit of the age

--of his environment--_vous comprenez?_--I do not blame my

poor father. He drank, gambled, took bribes. My mother--but why

say more? Poverty, the struggle for daily bread, the consciousness

of insignificance--ah, do not force me to recall it! I had to

make my own way. You know the monstrous education at a boarding-school,

foolish novel-reading, the errors of early youth, the first timid

flutter of love. It was awful! The vacillation! And the agonies of

losing faith in life, in oneself! Ah, you are an author. You know

us women. You will understand. Unhappily I have an intense nature.

I looked for happiness--and what happiness! I longed to set my

soul free. Yes. In that I saw my happiness!"

"Exquisite creature!" murmured the author, kissing her hand close

to the bracelet. "It's not you I am kissing, but the suffering of

humanity. Do you remember Raskolnikov and his kiss?"

"Oh, Voldemar, I longed for glory, renown, success, like every--

why affect modesty?--every nature above the commonplace. I yearned

for something extraordinary, above the common lot of woman! And

then--and then--there crossed my path--an old general--very

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Anton Chekhov An Enigmatic Nature

well off. Understand me, Voldemar! It was self-sacrifice, renunciation!

You must see that! I could do nothing else. I restored the family

fortunes, was able to travel, to do good. Yet how I suffered, how

revolting, how loathsome to me were his embraces--though I will

be fair to him--he had fought nobly in his day. There were moments

--terrible moments--but I was kept up by the thought that from

day to day the old man might die, that then I would begin to live

as I liked, to give myself to the man I adore--be happy. There

is such a man, Voldemar, indeed there is!"

The pretty lady flutters her fan more violently. Her face takes a

lachrymose expression. She goes on:

"But at last the old man died. He left me something. I was free as

a bird of the air. Now is the moment for me to be happy, isn't it,

Voldemar? Happiness comes tapping at my window, I had only to let

it in--but--Voldemar, listen, I implore you! Now is the time

for me to give myself to the man I love, to become the partner of

his life, to help, to uphold his ideals, to be happy--to find

rest--but--how ignoble, repulsive, and senseless all our life

is! How mean it all is, Voldemar. I am wretched, wretched, wretched!

Again there is an obstacle in my path! Again I feel that my happiness

is far, far away! Ah, what anguish!--if only you knew what anguish!"

"But what--what stands in your way? I implore you tell me! What

is it?"

"Another old general, very well off----"

The broken fan conceals the pretty little face. The author props

on his fist his thought--heavy brow and ponders with the air of

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Anton Chekhov An Enigmatic Nature

a master in psychology. The engine is whistling and hissing while

the window curtains flush red with the glow of the setting sun.

A HAPPY MAN

THE passenger train is just starting from Bologoe, the junction on

the Petersburg-Moscow line. In a second-class smoking compartment

five passengers sit dozing, shrouded in the twilight of the carriage.

They had just had a meal, and now, snugly ensconced in their seats,

they are trying to go to sleep. Stillness.

The door opens and in there walks a tall, lanky figure straight as

a poker, with a ginger-coloured hat and a smart overcoat, wonderfully

suggestive of a journalist in Jules Verne or on the comic stage.

The figure stands still in the middle of the compartment for a long

while, breathing heavily, screwing up his eyes and peering at the

seats.

"No, wrong again!" he mutters. "What the deuce! It's positively

revolting! No, the wrong one again!"

One of the passengers stares at the figure and utters a shout of

joy:

"Ivan Alexyevitch! what brings you here? Is it you?"

The poker-like gentleman starts, stares blankly at the passenger,

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Anton Chekhov An Enigmatic Nature

and recognizing him claps his hands with delight.

"Ha! Pyotr Petrovitch," he says. "How many summers, how many winters!

I didn't know you were in this train."

"How are you getting on?"

"I am all right; the only thing is, my dear fellow, I've lost my

compartment and I simply can't find it. What an idiot I am! I ought

to be thrashed!"

The poker-like gentleman sways a little unsteadily and sniggers.

"Queer things do happen!" he continues. "I stepped out just after

the second bell to get a glass of brandy. I got it, of course. Well,

I thought, since it's a long way to the next station, it would be

as well to have a second glass. While I was thinking about it and

drinking it the third bell rang. . . . I ran like mad and jumped

into the first carriage. I am an idiot! I am the son of a hen!"

"But you seem in very good spirits," observes Pyotr Petrovitch.

"Come and sit down! There's room and a welcome."

"No, no. . . . I'm off to look for my carriage. Good-bye!"

"You'll fall between the carriages in the dark if you don't look

out! Sit down, and when we get to a station you'll find your own

compartment. Sit down!"

Ivan Alexyevitch heaves a sigh and irresolutely sits down facing

Pyotr Petrovitch. He is visibly excited, and fidgets as though he

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