The Beauties: Essential Stories

  ANTON CHEKHOV

  THE

  BEAUTIES

  Essential Stories

  Translated from the Russian by

  Nicolas Pasternak Slater

  PUSHKIN PRESS

  LONDON

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  The Beauties

  The Man in a Box

  A Day in the Country

  A Blunder

  About Love

  Grief

  The Bet

  A Misfortune

  Sergeant Prishibeyev

  The Lady with the Little Dog

  The Huntsman

  The Privy Councillor

  The Kiss

  About the Publisher

  Copyright

  THE BEAUTIES

  I

  I REMEMBER, when I was a high school boy in the fifth or sixth class, driving with my grandfather from the village of Bolshaya Krepkaya in the Don Region to Rostov-on-Don. It was a wearisomely dreary, sultry August day. The heat and the burning dry wind blew clouds of dust in our faces, gummed up my eyes and dried out my mouth. I didn’t feel like looking around, or talking, or thinking; and when Karpo, our drowsy Ukrainian driver, caught my cap with his whip as he lashed his horse, I didn’t protest or utter a sound; I just woke from my doze and gazed meekly and dispiritedly into the distance to see if I could make out a village through the dust. We stopped to feed the horse at the house of a rich Armenian whom my grandfather knew, in the big Armenian village of Bakhchi-Salakh. Never in my life had I seen such a caricature of a man as this Armenian. Imagine a small, shaven head with thick beetling eyebrows, a beaky nose, a long grizzled moustache and a wide mouth with a long cherrywood chibouk poking out of it. The little head was clumsily attached to a skinny, hunchbacked body, dressed in fantastic attire – a short red tunic and wide, baggy, bright-blue trousers. This figure walked with his legs wide apart, shuffling along in slippers, talked without taking his chibouk out of his mouth, and carried himself with true Armenian dignity, neither smiling nor staring, but striving to pay his guests as little attention as possible.

  There was no wind or dust inside this Armenian’s home, but it was just as unpleasant, stifling and dreary as the road and the steppe outside. I remember sitting, covered in dust and worn out by the burning heat, on a green box in a corner. The bare wooden walls, the furniture and the ochre-stained floors all smelt of sun-scorched dry wood. Everywhere you looked there were flies, flies, flies… Grandfather and the Armenian were talking in an undertone about grazing, pastures, sheep… I knew that it would take a whole hour to get the samovar ready, and Grandfather would spend another hour drinking his tea, and then he’d lie down and sleep for two or three hours, and I’d waste a quarter of the day hanging about, after which there would be more heat, and dust, and rattling about in the cart. I listened to the murmur of those two voices and began to feel that the Armenian, and the crockery cupboard, and the flies, and the windows with the hot sun beating in, were all something I had been seeing for a long, long time, and that I would only cease to see them in the far distant future. And I was overcome with loathing for the steppe, and the sun, and the flies…

  A Ukrainian peasant woman in a headscarf brought in the tray with the tea things, and then the samovar. The Armenian strolled out onto the porch and called:

  “Mashya! Come and pour the tea! Where are you? Mashya!”

  There was the sound of hurried footsteps, and in came a girl of about sixteen, in a simple cotton dress and a little white headscarf. As she rinsed the cups and poured out the tea she was standing with her back to me, and all I noticed was that she had a slim waist, her feet were bare, and her little bare heels were covered by the bottoms of her long trousers.

  Our host invited me to come and have tea. As I sat down at the table, I glanced at the girl’s face while she handed me my glass, and suddenly felt something like a breath of wind over my soul, blowing away all my impressions of the day, with its tedium and dust. I saw the enchanting features of the loveliest face I had ever seen in my waking life, or imagined in my dreams. Before me stood a beauty, and from the very first glance I understood that, as I understand lightning.

  I am ready to swear that Masha, or Mashya as her father called her, was a real beauty; but I cannot prove it. It sometimes happens that ragged clouds gather on the horizon, and the sun, hiding behind them, colours them and the sky in every possible hue – crimson, orange, golden, lilac, dusty pink; one cloud looks like a monk, another like a fish, a third like a Turk in a turban. The sunset glow fills a third of the sky, shining on the church cross and the window panes of an elegant house, reflected in the river and the puddles, shimmering on the trees; far, far away against the sunset, a flock of wild ducks flies off to its night’s rest… And the farm lad herding his cows, the surveyor driving his chaise over the dam, and the gentlefolk out for their stroll, all gaze at the sunset, and every one of them finds it terribly beautiful, but no one knows or can say what makes it so.

  I was not the only one to find this Armenian girl beautiful. My grandfather, an old man of eighty, rough and indifferent to women and the beauties of nature, gazed affectionately at Masha for a whole minute, and asked:

  “Is this your daughter, Avet Nazarich?”

  “Yes. That’s my daughter…” replied our host.

  “A fine young lady,” said Grandfather appreciatively.

  An artist would have called this Armenian girl’s beauty classical and severe. It was just the sort of beauty which, as you contemplate it, heaven knows how, fills you with the certainty that the features you are seeing are right – that the hair, eyes, nose, mouth, neck, breast, and all the movements of this young body, have come together in a single, complete harmonic chord, in which nature has committed not the slightest error; you somehow feel that a woman of ideal beauty must possess exactly the same nose as Masha’s, straight and slightly aquiline, the same large dark eyes, the same long eyelashes, the same languid look; that her wavy black hair and eyebrows go with the gentle whiteness of her brow and cheeks just as a green rush goes with a quiet stream. Masha’s white neck and youthful breast were not yet fully developed, but in order to create them in a sculpture, you feel, one would have to possess an enormous creative talent. You look on, and gradually find yourself wishing to tell Masha something uncommonly agreeable, sincere and beautiful, as beautiful as herself.

  At first I was upset and embarrassed that Masha took no notice of me, but kept her eyes lowered; there was, it seemed to me, some special atmosphere of happiness and pride about her that separated her from me, jealously shielding her from my eyes.

  “It’s because I’m all covered in dust, and sunburnt,” I thought, “and because I’m only a boy.”

  But then I gradually forgot all about myself, and gave myself up wholly to the appreciation of beauty. I no longer remembered the tedium of the steppe, or the dust; I no longer heard the buzzing of the flies, nor noticed the taste of the tea – I was simply aware that opposite me, across the table, there stood a beautiful girl.

  I perceived her beauty in a strange sort of way. Masha aroused in me neither desire, nor delight, nor enjoyment, but a strange though pleasant sadness. This sadness was as indeterminate and vague as a dream. For some reason, I felt sorry for myself, and Grandfather, and the Armenian, and the Armenian maiden herself; I felt as if all four of us had lost something important and essential for life, which we would never find again. Grandfather grew sad too. He no longer talked about pastures or sheep, but sat in silence, looking thoughtfully at Masha.

  After tea, Grandfather lay down to sleep, while I went out to sit on the porch. This house, like every house in Bakhchi-Salakh, was exposed in full sunlight
– there were no trees, or awnings, or shade. The Armenian’s great farmyard, overgrown with goosefoot and mallow, was full of life and merriment despite the baking heat. Threshing was in progress behind one of the low wattle fences that ran across the yard here and there. Twelve horses harnessed in line around a post set in the very middle of the threshing floor, and forming a single long radius around it, were trotting round in circles. Beside them walked a Ukrainian in a long tunic and wide trousers, cracking his whip and shouting out as if he meant to taunt the horses and boast of his power over them:

  “He-e-ey, you wretches! He-e-ey… go die of cholera! Frightened, are you?”

  The chestnut, white and piebald horses had no idea why they were being forced to trot around in circles crushing wheat straw, and they ran unwillingly, forcing themselves on and flicking their tails with a discontented air. The wind raised great clouds of golden chaff from under their hooves, carrying it far away over the fence. Women with rakes jostled one another beside tall, newly built hayricks, carts moved about, and in another yard beyond the hayricks another dozen similar horses trotted around a post, and a second Ukrainian like the first cracked his whip and taunted them.

  The steps I was sitting on were hot, and the heat brought sap oozing up out of the flimsy railings and window frames. Little red bugs huddled together in the strips of shade under the steps and behind the shutters. The sun beat down on my head, and my chest, and my back, but I was unaware of it: all I noticed was the padding of bare feet behind me, on the porch and indoors. When Mashya had cleared away the tea things, she ran past me down the steps, fanning the air around me as she passed, and flew like a bird to a little smoke-blackened outhouse, the kitchen I suppose, from which came a smell of roast mutton and the sound of angry Armenian voices. She vanished through the dark doorway, and in her place a hunchbacked old Armenian woman, red-faced and wearing wide green trousers, appeared at the door. She was angrily scolding someone. Soon Mashya reappeared in the doorway, flushed with the heat of the kitchen and carrying a large black loaf on her shoulder. Bending gracefully under its weight, she ran across the yard to the threshing floor, skipped over the fence, and, enveloped by a cloud of golden chaff, disappeared behind the farm carts. The farm hand driving the horses lowered his whip, held his tongue and stood in silence for a minute looking over towards the carts; then, when the Armenian girl once more darted past the horses and skipped over the fence, he followed her with his eyes and shouted at the horses in a most offended voice:

  “Hey! Go drop down dead, you devil’s brood!”

  And all the time after that I went on hearing her bare feet stepping here and there, and saw her crossing and recrossing the farmyard with a serious, troubled expression. Sometimes she ran up or down the steps, fanning me with a breeze as she passed on her way to the kitchen, or the threshing-floor, or out of the gate, and I scarcely had time to turn my head and follow her.

  And every time she darted past me in all her beauty, I felt sadder and sadder. I was sorry for myself, and for her, and for the farm hand who followed her with sad eyes every time she ran through the cloud of chaff to the carts. Whether I envied her beauty, or whether I was sorry that this girl was not mine and never would be mine and that I was a stranger to her, or whether I had a vague feeling that her rare beauty was accidental and unnecessary, and like everything on earth, would not last; or whether my sadness was that special feeling aroused when a person contemplates real beauty – God only knows!

  Three hours of waiting passed unnoticed. It seemed to me that I hadn’t had time to look my fill at Mashya before Karpo had ridden to the river, washed down the horse, and was already harnessing it. The wet horse snorted with pleasure and kicked its hooves against the shafts. Karpo shouted “Ba-a-ack!” Grandfather woke. Mashya opened the creaking gates for us, we took our places in the chaise, and drove out of the yard. We rode in silence, as if angry with one another.

  Two or three hours later, when Rostov and Nakhichevan were in sight, Karpo, who had not said a word all the way, looked round quickly and said:

  “That’s a fine lass, that Armenian’s!”

  And whipped up his horse.

  II

  On another occasion, when I was a student, I was travelling south on the railway. It was May. At one of the stations, I believe between Belgorod and Kharkov, I left my carriage to walk along the platform.

  The evening shadows had already descended on the station garden, the platform and the fields around. The sunset was hidden by the station house, but the highest puffs of smoke from the engine, which were now tinted a soft pink, showed that the sun had not yet quite disappeared.

  As I strolled up and down the platform, I noticed that most of the passengers out to stretch their legs were strolling or standing in a group beside one particular second-class carriage, with expressions suggesting that some famous person was sitting in it. One of the curious people I encountered near the carriage, incidentally, was a fellow-traveller, an artillery officer – an intelligent, cordial, pleasant fellow, as anyone is whom one chances to meet briefly on a journey.

  “What are you looking at there?” I asked.

  He did not reply, but just turned his eyes to point out a female figure. This was a young girl of seventeen or eighteen, dressed in Russian costume, bareheaded and wearing a little shawl carelessly slung over one shoulder; not a passenger, but probably the stationmaster’s daughter or sister. She was standing next to a carriage window, talking with an elderly lady passenger inside. Before I had time to realize what I was looking at, I was overcome by the same feeling I had once experienced in that Armenian village.

  The girl was an amazing beauty, and neither I nor any of the other people looking at her with me was in any doubt about that.

  If I was to describe her appearance point by point, as is usually done, then the only truly beautiful thing about her was her thick, wavy fair hair, hanging down and loosely tied with a black ribbon. All the rest was either not quite right, or very commonplace. Whether it was a special way of looking flirtatious, or whether she was short-sighted – her eyes were screwed up, her nose had an uncertain tilt, her mouth was small, her profile weak and indeterminate, her shoulders too narrow for her age; and despite all this, the girl gave the impression of a true beauty, and looking at her, I convinced myself that a Russian face, in order to appear beautiful, does not need to have classically correct features – indeed, if that girl’s upturned nose had been replaced by a different one, correct and faultlessly formed like the Armenian girl’s, I believe her face would have lost all its charm.

  As she stood talking by the window, the girl hunched her shoulders to keep out the cold evening air, kept looking round at us, rested her hands on her hips, lifted them to her head to arrange her hair, talked, laughed, expressed amazement, then shock – I cannot remember a moment when her face and body were at rest. The whole secret, the whole magic of her beauty lay in those slight, supremely elegant movements, her smile, the play of her features, her swift glances at us; in the combination of the fine grace of her movements with her youth, her freshness, the innocence of her soul, that sounded through her laughter and speech; and the vulnerability which we love so much in children, in birds, in young deer or young trees.

  It was a moth-like beauty – the beauty that goes so well with a waltz, or darting across a garden, or with laughter and merriment, and which has no business with serious thoughts, sorrow or repose. It seemed as if a good gust of wind blowing along the platform, or a sudden shower, would be enough to make that fragile body suddenly wilt, scattering its capricious beauty like pollen from a flower.

  “Ye-es…” sighed the officer, when the second bell sounded and we walked back to our carriage.

  What that “Ye-es” meant, I couldn’t say.

  Perhaps he felt sad, and unwilling to walk away from that beauty, to abandon the spring evening for a stuffy carriage; or perhaps, like me, he felt unaccountably sorry for the beauty, and himself, and me, and all the passengers wand
ering listlessly and reluctantly back to their compartments. As we passed the station house window, where a telegraphist with upstanding ginger curls and a pale, washed-out face with high cheekbones was sitting at his instrument, the officer said with a sigh:

  “I bet the telegraphist is in love with that pretty girl. To live out in the wilds under the same roof as that ethereal creature, and not fall in love – that’s beyond the power of man. But what a misfortune, my friend – what a mockery, to be a round-shouldered, shaggy-haired, insignificant, decent fellow, and no fool, and fall in love with that pretty, silly girl, who won’t take the slightest notice of you! Or even worse – supposing the telegraphist is in love, but he’s already married, and his wife is just as round-shouldered, shaggy and decent as he is… Torture!”

  The conductor stood beside our carriage, lolling on the railing between two coaches and looking over to where the beauty was standing. His raddled, flabby, unpleasantly podgy face, worn out by sleepless nights and jolting trains, wore an expression of tenderness and profound sadness, as if in that girl he could see his own youth, happiness, sobriety, purity, his wife and children; as if he was full of regret, and felt with his whole being that this girl was not his, and that he, aged before his time, ungainly and fat-faced, was as far removed from the ordinary, human happiness of us passengers as he was from the sky above.

  The third bell rang, whistles sounded, and the train moved slowly off. Past our window there came, first, the conductor, then the stationmaster, then the garden, and the beauty with her wonderful, mischievous, childish smile…

  Putting my head out of the window and looking back, I saw her follow the train with her eyes, walk along the platform past the window where the telegraphist sat, pat her hair and run into the garden. The station no longer shut out the western sky, the countryside lay open, but the sun had already set, and black billows of smoke drifted over the velvety green winter corn. There was sadness in the spring air, and the darkening sky, and inside the carriage.