Ionitch

by Anton Chekhov

IWHEN visitors to the provincial town S---- complained of thedreariness and monotony of life, the inhabitants of the town, asthough defending themselves, declared that it was very nice inS----, that there was a library, a theatre, a club; that they hadballs; and, finally, that there were clever, agreeable, and interestingfamilies with whom one could make acquaintance. And they used topoint to the family of the Turkins as the most highly cultivatedand talented.This family lived in their own house in the principal street, nearthe Governor's. Ivan Petrovitch Turkin himself--a stout, handsome,dark man with whiskers--used to get up amateur performances forbenevolent objects, and used to take the part of an elderly generaland cough very amusingly. He knew a number of anecdotes, charades,proverbs, and was fond of being humorous and witty, and he alwayswore an expression from which it was impossible to tell whether hewere joking or in earnest. His wife, Vera Iosifovna--a thin,nice-looking lady who wore a pince-nez--used to write novels andstories, and was very fond of reading them aloud to her visitors.The daughter, Ekaterina Ivanovna, a young girl, used to play on thepiano. In short, every member of the family had a special talent.The Turkins welcomed visitors, and good-humouredly displayed theirtalents with genuine simplicity. Their stone house was roomy andcool in summer; half of the windows looked into a shady old garden,where nightingales used to sing in the spring. When there werevisitors in the house, there was a clatter of knives in the kitchenand a smell of fried onions in the yard--and that was always asure sign of a plentiful and savoury supper to follow.And as soon as Dmitri Ionitch Startsev was appointed the districtdoctor, and took up his abode at Dyalizh, six miles from S----, he,too, was told that as a cultivated man it was essential for him tomake the acquaintance of the Turkins. In the winter he was introducedto Ivan Petrovitch in the street; they talked about the weather,about the theatre, about the cholera; an invitation followed. On aholiday in the spring--it was Ascension Day--after seeing hispatients, Startsev set off for town in search of a little recreationand to make some purchases. He walked in a leisurely way (he hadnot yet set up his carriage), humming all the time:"'Before I'd drunk the tears from life's goblet. . . .'"In town he dined, went for a walk in the gardens, then IvanPetrovitch's invitation came into his mind, as it were of itself,and he decided to call on the Turkins and see what sort of peoplethey were."How do you do, if you please?" said Ivan Petrovitch, meeting himon the steps. "Delighted, delighted to see such an agreeable visitor.Come along; I will introduce you to my better half. I tell him,Verotchka," he went on, as he presented the doctor to his wife--"Itell him that he has no human right to sit at home in a hospital;he ought to devote his leisure to society. Oughtn't he, darling?""Sit here," said Vera Iosifovna, making her visitor sit down besideher. "You can dance attendance on me. My husband is jealous--heis an Othello; but we will try and behave so well that he willnotice nothing.""Ah, you spoilt chicken!" Ivan Petrovitch muttered tenderly, andhe kissed her on the forehead. "You have come just in the nick oftime," he said, addressing the doctor again. "My better half haswritten a 'hugeous' novel, and she is going to read it aloud to-day.""Petit Jean," said Vera Iosifovna to her husband, "dites que l'onnous donne du the."Startsev was introduced to Ekaterina Ivanovna, a girl of eighteen,very much like her mother, thin and pretty. Her expression was stillchildish and her figure was soft and slim; and her developed girlishbosom, healthy and beautiful, was suggestive of spring, real spring.Then they drank tea with jam, honey, and sweetmeats, and with verynice cakes, which melted in the mouth. As the evening came on, othervisitors gradually arrived, and Ivan Petrovitch fixed his laughingeyes on each of them and said:"How do you do, if you please?"Then they all sat down in the drawing-room with very serious faces,and Vera Iosifovna read her novel. It began like this: "The frostwas intense. . . ." The windows were wide open; from the kitchencame the clatter of knives and the smell of fried onions. . . . Itwas comfortable in the soft deep arm-chair; the lights had such afriendly twinkle in the twilight of the drawing-room, and at themoment on a summer evening when sounds of voices and laughter floatedin from the street and whiffs of lilac from the yard, it was difficultto grasp that the frost was intense, and that the setting sun waslighting with its chilly rays a solitary wayfarer on the snowyplain. Vera Iosifovna read how a beautiful young countess foundeda school, a hospital, a library, in her village, and fell in lovewith a wandering artist; she read of what never happens in reallife, and yet it was pleasant to listen--it was comfortable, andsuch agreeable, serene thoughts kept coming into the mind, one hadno desire to get up."Not badsome . . ." Ivan Petrovitch said softly.And one of the visitors hearing, with his thoughts far away, saidhardly audibly:"Yes . . . truly. . . ."One hour passed, another. In the town gardens close by a band wasplaying and a chorus was singing. When Vera Iosifovna shut hermanuscript book, the company was silent for five minutes, listeningto "Lutchina" being sung by the chorus, and the song gave what wasnot in the novel and is in real life."Do you publish your stories in magazines?" Startsev asked VeraIosifovna."No," she answered. "I never publish. I write it and put it awayin my cupboard. Why publish?" she explained. "We have enough tolive on."And for some reason every one sighed."And now, Kitten, you play something," Ivan Petrovitch said to hisdaughter.The lid of the piano was raised and the music lying ready was opened.Ekaterina Ivanovna sat down and banged on the piano with both hands,and then banged again with all her might, and then again and again;her shoulders and bosom shook. She obstinately banged on the samenotes, and it sounded as if she would not leave off until she hadhammered the keys into the piano. The drawing-room was filled withthe din; everything was resounding; the floor, the ceiling, thefurniture. . . . Ekaterina Ivanovna was playing a difficult passage,interesting simply on account of its difficulty, long and monotonous,and Startsev, listening, pictured stones dropping down a steep hilland going on dropping, and he wished they would leave off dropping;and at the same time Ekaterina Ivanovna, rosy from the violentexercise, strong and vigorous, with a lock of hair falling over herforehead, attracted him very much. After the winter spent at Dyalizhamong patients and peasants, to sit in a drawing-room, to watchthis young, elegant, and, in all probability, pure creature, andto listen to these noisy, tedious but still cultured sounds, wasso pleasant, so novel. . . ."Well, Kitten, you have played as never before," said Ivan Petrovitch,with tears in his eyes, when his daughter had finished and stoodup. "Die, Denis; you won't write anything better."All flocked round her, congratulated her, expressed astonishment,declared that it was long since they had heard such music, and shelistened in silence with a faint smile, and her whole figure wasexpressive of triumph."Splendid, superb!""Splendid," said Startsev, too, carried away by the general enthusiasm."Where have you studied?" he asked Ekaterina Ivanovna. "At theConservatoire?""No, I am only preparing for the Conservatoire, and till now havebeen working with Madame Zavlovsky.""Have you finished at the high school here?""Oh, no," Vera Iosifovna answered for her, "We have teachers forher at home; there might be bad influences at the high school or aboarding school, you know. While a young girl is growing up, sheought to be under no influence but her mother's.""All the same, I'm going to the Conservatoire," said EkaterinaIvanovna."No. Kitten loves her mamma. Kitten won't grieve papa and mamma.""No, I'm going, I'm going," said Ekaterina Ivanovna, with playfulcaprice and stamping her foot.And at supper it was Ivan Petrovitch who displayed his talents.Laughing only with his eyes, he told anecdotes, made epigrams, askedridiculous riddles and answered them himself, talking the wholetime in his extraordinary language, evolved in the course of prolongedpractice in witticism and evidently now become a habit: "Badsome,""Hugeous," "Thank you most dumbly," and so on.But that was not all. When the guests, replete and satisfied, troopedinto the hall, looking for their coats and sticks, there bustledabout them the footman Pavlusha, or, as he was called in the family,Pava--a lad of fourteen with shaven head and chubby cheeks."Come, Pava, perform!" Ivan Petrovitch said to him.Pava struck an attitude, flung up his arm, and said in a tragictone: "Unhappy woman, die!"And every one roared with laughter."It's entertaining," thought Startsev, as he went out into thestreet.He went to a restaurant and drank some beer, then set off to walkhome to Dyalizh; he walked all the way singing:"'Thy voice to me so languid and caressing. . . .'"On going to bed, he felt not the slightest fatigue after the sixmiles' walk. On the contrary, he felt as though he could withpleasure have walked another twenty."Not badsome," he thought, and laughed as he fell asleep.IIStartsev kept meaning to go to the Turkins' again, but there was agreat deal of work in the hospital, and he was unable to find freetime. In this way more than a year passed in work and solitude. Butone day a letter in a light blue envelope was brought him from thetown.Vera Iosifovna had been suffering for some time from migraine, butnow since Kitten frightened her every day by saying that she wasgoing away to the Conservatoire, the attacks began to be morefrequent. All the doctors of the town had been at the Turkins'; atlast it was the district doctor's turn. Vera Iosifovna wrote him atouching letter in which she begged him to come and relieve hersufferings. Startsev went, and after that he began to be often,very often at the Turkins'. . . . He really did something for VeraIosifovna, and she was already telling all her visitors that he wasa wonderful and exceptional doctor. But it was not for the sake ofher migraine that he visited the Turkins' now. . . .It was a holiday. Ekaterina Ivanovna finished her long, wearisomeexercises on the piano. Then they sat a long time in the dining-room,drinking tea, and Ivan Petrovitch told some amusing story. Thenthere was a ring and he had to go into the hall to welcome a guest;Startsev took advantage of the momentary commotion, and whisperedto Ekaterina Ivanovna in great agitation:"For God's sake, I entreat you, don't torment me; let us go intothe garden!"She shrugged her shoulders, as though perplexed and not knowingwhat he wanted of her, but she got up and went."You play the piano for three or four hours," he said, followingher; "then you sit with your mother, and there is no possibilityof speaking to you. Give me a quarter of an hour at least, I beseechyou."Autumn was approaching, and it was quiet and melancholy in the oldgarden; the dark leaves lay thick in the walks. It was alreadybeginning to get dark early."I haven't seen you for a whole week," Startsev went on, "and ifyou only knew what suffering it is! Let us sit down. Listen to me."They had a favourite place in the garden; a seat under an oldspreading maple. And now they sat down on this seat."What do you want?" said Ekaterina Ivanovna drily, in a matter-of-facttone."I have not seen you for a whole week; I have not heard you for solong. I long passionately, I thirst for your voice. Speak."She fascinated him by her freshness, the naive expression of hereyes and cheeks. Even in the way her dress hung on her, he sawsomething extraordinarily charming, touching in its simplicity andnaive grace; and at the same time, in spite of this naivete, sheseemed to him intelligent and developed beyond her years. He couldtalk with her about literature, about art, about anything he liked;could complain to her of life, of people, though it sometimeshappened in the middle of serious conversation she would laughinappropriately or run away into the house. Like almost all girlsof her neighbourhood, she had read a great deal (as a rule, peopleread very little in S----, and at the lending library they said ifit were not for the girls and the young Jews, they might as wellshut up the library). This afforded Startsev infinite delight; heused to ask her eagerly every time what she had been reading thelast few days, and listened enthralled while she told him."What have you been reading this week since I saw you last?" heasked now. "Do please tell me.""I have been reading Pisemsky.""What exactly?""'A Thousand Souls,'" answered Kitten. "And what a funny namePisemsky had--Alexey Feofilaktitch!"Where are you going?" cried Startsev in horror, as she suddenlygot up and walked towards the house. "I must talk to you; I wantto explain myself. . . . Stay with me just five minutes, I supplicateyou!"She stopped as though she wanted to say something, then awkwardlythrust a note into his hand, ran home and sat down to the pianoagain."Be in the cemetery," Startsev read, "at eleven o'clock to-night,near the tomb of Demetti.""Well, that's not at all clever," he thought, coming to himself."Why the cemetery? What for?"It was clear: Kitten was playing a prank. Who would seriously dreamof making an appointment at night in the cemetery far out of thetown, when it might have been arranged in the street or in the towngardens? And was it in keeping with him--a district doctor, anintelligent, staid man--to be sighing, receiving notes, to hangabout cemeteries, to do silly things that even schoolboys thinkridiculous nowadays? What would this romance lead to? What wouldhis colleagues say when they heard of it? Such were Startsev'sreflections as he wandered round the tables at the club, and athalf-past ten he suddenly set off for the cemetery.By now he had his own pair of horses, and a coachman calledPanteleimon, in a velvet waistcoat. The moon was shining. It wasstill warm, warm as it is in autumn. Dogs were howling in the suburbnear the slaughter-house. Startsev left his horses in one of theside-streets at the end of the town, and walked on foot to thecemetery."We all have our oddities," he thought. "Kitten is odd, too; and--who knows?--perhaps she is not joking, perhaps she will come";and he abandoned himself to this faint, vain hope, and it intoxicatedhim.He walked for half a mile through the fields; the cemetery showedas a dark streak in the distance, like a forest or a big garden.The wall of white stone came into sight, the gate. . . . In themoonlight he could read on the gate: "The hour cometh." Startsevwent in at the little gate, and before anything else he saw thewhite crosses and monuments on both sides of the broad avenue, andthe black shadows of them and the poplars; and for a long way roundit was all white and black, and the slumbering trees bowed theirbranches over the white stones. It seemed as though it were lighterhere than in the fields; the maple-leaves stood out sharply likepaws on the yellow sand of the avenue and on the stones, and theinscriptions on the tombs could be clearly read. For the firstmoments Startsev was struck now by what he saw for the first timein his life, and what he would probably never see again; a worldnot like anything else, a world in which the moonlight was as softand beautiful, as though slumbering here in its cradle, where therewas no life, none whatever; but in every dark poplar, in every tomb,there was felt the presence of a mystery that promised a lifepeaceful, beautiful, eternal. The stones and faded flowers, togetherwith the autumn scent of the leaves, all told of forgiveness,melancholy, and peace.All was silence around; the stars looked down from the sky in theprofound stillness, and Startsev's footsteps sounded loud and outof place, and only when the church clock began striking and heimagined himself dead, buried there for ever, he felt as thoughsome one were looking at him, and for a moment he thought that itwas not peace and tranquillity, but stifled despair, the dumbdreariness of non-existence. . . .Demetti's tomb was in the form of a shrine with an angel at thetop. The Italian opera had once visited S---- and one of the singershad died; she had been buried here, and this monument put up toher. No one in the town remembered her, but the lamp at the entrancereflected the moonlight, and looked as though it were burning.There was no one, and, indeed, who would come here at midnight? ButStartsev waited, and as though the moonlight warmed his passion,he waited passionately, and, in imagination, pictured kisses andembraces. He sat near the monument for half an hour, then paced upand down the side avenues, with his hat in his hand, waiting andthinking of the many women and girls buried in these tombs who hadbeen beautiful and fascinating, who had loved, at night burned withpassion, yielding themselves to caresses. How wickedly Mother Naturejested at man's expense, after all! How humiliating it was torecognise it!Startsev thought this, and at the same time he wanted to cry outthat he wanted love, that he was eager for it at all costs. To hiseyes they were not slabs of marble, but fair white bodies in themoonlight; he saw shapes hiding bashfully in the shadows of thetrees, felt their warmth, and the languor was oppressive. . . .And as though a curtain were lowered, the moon went behind a cloud,and suddenly all was darkness. Startsev could scarcely find thegate--by now it was as dark as it is on an autumn night. Then hewandered about for an hour and a half, looking for the side-streetin which he had left his horses."I am tired; I can scarcely stand on my legs," he said to Panteleimon.And settling himself with relief in his carriage, he thought: "Och!I ought not to get fat!"IIIThe following evening he went to the Turkins' to make an offer. Butit turned out to be an inconvenient moment, as Ekaterina Ivanovnawas in her own room having her hair done by a hair-dresser. She wasgetting ready to go to a dance at the club.He had to sit a long time again in the dining-room drinking tea.Ivan Petrovitch, seeing that his visitor was bored and preoccupied,drew some notes out of his waistcoat pocket, read a funny letterfrom a German steward, saying that all the ironmongery was ruinedand the plasticity was peeling off the walls."I expect they will give a decent dowry," thought Startsev, listeningabsent-mindedly.After a sleepless night, he found himself in a state of stupefaction,as though he had been given something sweet and soporific to drink;there was fog in his soul, but joy and warmth, and at the same timea sort of cold, heavy fragment of his brain was reflecting:"Stop before it is too late! Is she the match for you? She is spoilt,whimsical, sleeps till two o'clock in the afternoon, while you area deacon's son, a district doctor. . . .""What of it?" he thought. "I don't care.""Besides, if you marry her," the fragment went on, "then her relationswill make you give up the district work and live in the town.""After all," he thought, "if it must be the town, the town it mustbe. They will give a dowry; we can establish ourselves suitably."At last Ekaterina Ivanovna came in, dressed for the ball, with alow neck, looking fresh and pretty; and Startsev admired her somuch, and went into such ecstasies, that he could say nothing, butsimply stared at her and laughed.She began saying good-bye, and he--he had no reason for stayingnow--got up, saying that it was time for him to go home; hispatients were waiting for him."Well, there's no help for that," said Ivan Petrovitch. "Go, andyou might take Kitten to the club on the way."It was spotting with rain; it was very dark, and they could onlytell where the horses were by Panteleimon's husky cough. The hoodof the carriage was put up."I stand upright; you lie down right; he lies all right," said IvanPetrovitch as he put his daughter into the carriage.They drove off."I was at the cemetery yesterday," Startsev began. "How ungenerousand merciless it was on your part! . . .""You went to the cemetery?""Yes, I went there and waited almost till two o'clock. I suffered. . .""Well, suffer, if you cannot understand a joke."Ekaterina Ivanovna, pleased at having so cleverly taken in a manwho was in love with her, and at being the object of such intenselove, burst out laughing and suddenly uttered a shriek of terror,for, at that very minute, the horses turned sharply in at the gateof the club, and the carriage almost tilted over. Startsev put hisarm round Ekaterina Ivanovna's waist; in her fright she nestled upto him, and he could not restrain himself, and passionately kissedher on the lips and on the chin, and hugged her more tightly."That's enough," she said drily.And a minute later she was not in the carriage, and a policemannear the lighted entrance of the club shouted in a detestable voiceto Panteleimon:"What are you stopping for, you crow? Drive on."Startsev drove home, but soon afterwards returned. Attired in anotherman's dress suit and a stiff white tie which kept sawing at hisneck and trying to slip away from the collar, he was sitting atmidnight in the club drawing-room, and was saying with enthusiasmto Ekaterina Ivanovna."Ah, how little people know who have never loved! It seems to methat no one has ever yet written of love truly, and I doubt whetherthis tender, joyful, agonising feeling can be described, and anyone who has once experienced it would not attempt to put it intowords. What is the use of preliminaries and introductions? What isthe use of unnecessary fine words? My love is immeasurable. I beg,I beseech you," Startsev brought out at last, "be my wife!""Dmitri Ionitch," said Ekaterina Ivanovna, with a very grave face,after a moment's thought--"Dmitri Ionitch, I am very grateful toyou for the honour. I respect you, but . . ." she got up and continuedstanding, "but, forgive me, I cannot be your wife. Let us talkseriously. Dmitri Ionitch, you know I love art beyond everythingin life. I adore music; I love it frantically; I have dedicated mywhole life to it. I want to be an artist; I want fame, success,freedom, and you want me to go on living in this town, to go onliving this empty, useless life, which has become insufferable tome. To become a wife--oh, no, forgive me! One must strive towardsa lofty, glorious goal, and married life would put me in bondagefor ever. Dmitri Ionitch" (she faintly smiled as she pronounced hisname; she thought of "Alexey Feofilaktitch")--"Dmitri Ionitch,you are a good, clever, honourable man; you are better than anyone. . . ." Tears came into her eyes. "I feel for you with my wholeheart, but . . . but you will understand. . . ."And she turned away and went out of the drawing-room to preventherself from crying.Startsev's heart left off throbbing uneasily. Going out of the clubinto the street, he first of all tore off the stiff tie and drew adeep breath. He was a little ashamed and his vanity was wounded--he had not expected a refusal--and could not believe that all hisdreams, his hopes and yearnings, had led him up to such a stupidend, just as in some little play at an amateur performance, and hewas sorry for his feeling, for that love of his, so sorry that hefelt as though he could have burst into sobs or have violentlybelaboured Panteleimon's broad back with his umbrella.For three days he could not get on with anything, he could not eatnor sleep; but when the news reached him that Ekaterina Ivanovnahad gone away to Moscow to enter the Conservatoire, he grew calmerand lived as before.Afterwards, remembering sometimes how he had wandered about thecemetery or how he had driven all over the town to get a dress suit,he stretched lazily and said:"What a lot of trouble, though!"IVFour years had passed. Startsev already had a large practice in thetown. Every morning he hurriedly saw his patients at Dyalizh, thenhe drove in to see his town patients. By now he drove, not with apair, but with a team of three with bells on them, and he returnedhome late at night. He had grown broader and stouter, and was notvery fond of walking, as he was somewhat asthmatic. And Panteleimonhad grown stout, too, and the broader he grew, the more mournfullyhe sighed and complained of his hard luck: he was sick of driving!Startsev used to visit various households and met many people, butdid not become intimate with any one. The inhabitants irritated himby their conversation, their views of life, and even their appearance.Experience taught him by degrees that while he played cards orlunched with one of these people, the man was a peaceable, friendly,and even intelligent human being; that as soon as one talked ofanything not eatable, for instance, of politics or science, he wouldbe completely at a loss, or would expound a philosophy so stupidand ill-natured that there was nothing else to do but wave one'shand in despair and go away. Even when Startsev tried to talk toliberal citizens, saying, for instance, that humanity, thank God,was progressing, and that one day it would be possible to dispensewith passports and capital punishment, the liberal citizen wouldlook at him askance and ask him mistrustfully: "Then any one couldmurder any one he chose in the open street?" And when, at tea orsupper, Startsev observed in company that one should work, and thatone ought not to live without working, every one took this as areproach, and began to get angry and argue aggressively. With allthat, the inhabitants did nothing, absolutely nothing, and took nointerest in anything, and it was quite impossible to think ofanything to say. And Startsev avoided conversation, and confinedhimself to eating and playing _vint_; and when there was a familyfestivity in some household and he was invited to a meal, then hesat and ate in silence, looking at his plate.And everything that was said at the time was uninteresting, unjust,and stupid; he felt irritated and disturbed, but held his tongue,and, because he sat glumly silent and looked at his plate, he wasnicknamed in the town "the haughty Pole," though he never had beena Pole.All such entertainments as theatres and concerts he declined, buthe played _vint_ every evening for three hours with enjoyment. Hehad another diversion to which he took imperceptibly, little bylittle: in the evening he would take out of his pockets the noteshe had gained by his practice, and sometimes there were stuffed inhis pockets notes--yellow and green, and smelling of scent andvinegar and incense and fish oil--up to the value of seventyroubles; and when they amounted to some hundreds he took them tothe Mutual Credit Bank and deposited the money there to his account.He was only twice at the Turkins' in the course of the four yearsafter Ekaterina Ivanovna had gone away, on each occasion at theinvitation of Vera Iosifovna, who was still undergoing treatmentfor migraine. Every summer Ekaterina Ivanovna came to stay with herparents, but he did not once see her; it somehow never happened.But now four years had passed. One still, warm morning a letter wasbrought to the hospital. Vera Iosifovna wrote to Dmitri Ionitchthat she was missing him very much, and begged him to come and seethem, and to relieve her sufferings; and, by the way, it was herbirthday. Below was a postscript: "I join in mother's request.--K."Startsev considered, and in the evening he went to the Turkins'."How do you do, if you please?" Ivan Petrovitch met him, smilingwith his eyes only. "Bongjour."Vera Iosifovna, white-haired and looking much older, shook Startsev'shand, sighed affectedly, and said:"You don't care to pay attentions to me, doctor. You never come andsee us; I am too old for you. But now some one young has come;perhaps she will be more fortunate."And Kitten? She had grown thinner, paler, had grown handsomer andmore graceful; but now she was Ekaterina Ivanovna, not Kitten; shehad lost the freshness and look of childish naivete. And in herexpression and manners there was something new--guilty anddiffident, as though she did not feel herself at home here in theTurkins' house."How many summers, how many winters!" she said, giving Startsev herhand, and he could see that her heart was beating with excitement;and looking at him intently and curiously, she went on: "How muchstouter you are! You look sunburnt and more manly, but on the wholeyou have changed very little."Now, too, he thought her attractive, very attractive, but there wassomething lacking in her, or else something superfluous--he couldnot himself have said exactly what it was, but something preventedhim from feeling as before. He did not like her pallor, her newexpression, her faint smile, her voice, and soon afterwards hedisliked her clothes, too, the low chair in which she was sitting;he disliked something in the past when he had almost married her.He thought of his love, of the dreams and the hopes which hadtroubled him four years before--and he felt awkward.They had tea with cakes. Then Vera Iosifovna read aloud a novel;she read of things that never happen in real life, and Startsevlistened, looked at her handsome grey head, and waited for her tofinish."People are not stupid because they can't write novels, but becausethey can't conceal it when they do," he thought."Not badsome," said Ivan Petrovitch.Then Ekaterina Ivanovna played long and noisily on the piano, andwhen she finished she was profusely thanked and warmly praised."It's a good thing I did not marry her," thought Startsev.She looked at him, and evidently expected him to ask her to go intothe garden, but he remained silent."Let us have a talk," she said, going up to him. "How are you gettingon? What are you doing? How are things? I have been thinking aboutyou all these days," she went on nervously. "I wanted to write toyou, wanted to come myself to see you at Dyalizh. I quite made upmy mind to go, but afterwards I thought better of it. God knowswhat your attitude is towards me now; I have been looking forwardto seeing you to-day with such emotion. For goodness' sake let usgo into the garden."They went into the garden and sat down on the seat under the oldmaple, just as they had done four years before. It was dark."How are you getting on?" asked Ekaterina Ivanovna."Oh, all right; I am jogging along," answered Startsev.And he could think of nothing more. They were silent."I feel so excited!" said Ekaterina Ivanovna, and she hid her facein her hands. "But don't pay attention to it. I am so happy to beat home; I am so glad to see every one. I can't get used to it. Somany memories! I thought we should talk without stopping tillmorning."Now he saw her face near, her shining eyes, and in the darkness shelooked younger than in the room, and even her old childish expressionseemed to have come back to her. And indeed she was looking at himwith naive curiosity, as though she wanted to get a closer view andunderstanding of the man who had loved her so ardently, with suchtenderness, and so unsuccessfully; her eyes thanked him for thatlove. And he remembered all that had been, every minute detail; howhe had wandered about the cemetery, how he had returned home in themorning exhausted, and he suddenly felt sad and regretted the past.A warmth began glowing in his heart."Do you remember how I took you to the dance at the club?" he asked."It was dark and rainy then. . ."The warmth was glowing now in his heart, and he longed to talk, torail at life. . . ."Ech!" he said with a sigh. "You ask how I am living. How do welive here? Why, not at all. We grow old, we grow stout, we growslack. Day after day passes; life slips by without colour, withoutexpressions, without thoughts. . . . In the daytime working forgain, and in the evening the club, the company of card-players,alcoholic, raucous-voiced gentlemen whom I can't endure. What isthere nice in it?""Well, you have work--a noble object in life. You used to be sofond of talking of your hospital. I was such a queer girl then; Iimagined myself such a great pianist. Nowadays all young ladiesplay the piano, and I played, too, like everybody else, and therewas nothing special about me. I am just such a pianist as my motheris an authoress. And of course I didn't understand you then, butafterwards in Moscow I often thought of you. I thought of no onebut you. What happiness to be a district doctor; to help thesuffering; to be serving the people! What happiness!" EkaterinaIvanovna repeated with enthusiasm. "When I thought of you in Moscow,you seemed to me so ideal, so lofty. . . ."Startsev thought of the notes he used to take out of his pocketsin the evening with such pleasure, and the glow in his heart wasquenched.He got up to go into the house. She took his arm."You are the best man I've known in my life," she went on. "We willsee each other and talk, won't we? Promise me. I am not a pianist;I am not in error about myself now, and I will not play before youor talk of music."When they had gone into the house, and when Startsev saw in thelamplight her face, and her sad, grateful, searching eyes fixedupon him, he felt uneasy and thought again:"It's a good thing I did not marry her then."He began taking leave."You have no human right to go before supper," said Ivan Petrovitchas he saw him off. "It's extremely perpendicular on your part. Well,now, perform!" he added, addressing Pava in the hall.Pava, no longer a boy, but a young man with moustaches, threw himselfinto an attitude, flung up his arm, and said in a tragic voice:"Unhappy woman, die!"All this irritated Startsev. Getting into his carriage, and lookingat the dark house and garden which had once been so precious andso dear, he thought of everything at once--Vera Iosifovna's novelsand Kitten's noisy playing, and Ivan Petrovitch's jokes and Pava'stragic posturing, and thought if the most talented people in thetown were so futile, what must the town be?Three days later Pava brought a letter from Ekaterina Ivanovna."You don't come and see us--why?" she wrote to him. "I am afraidthat you have changed towards us. I am afraid, and I am terrifiedat the very thought of it. Reassure me; come and tell me thateverything is well."I must talk to you.--Your E. I."----He read this letter, thought a moment, and said to Pava:"Tell them, my good fellow, that I can't come to-day; I am verybusy. Say I will come in three days or so."But three days passed, a week passed; he still did not go. Happeningonce to drive past the Turkins' house, he thought he must go in,if only for a moment, but on second thoughts . . . did not go in.And he never went to the Turkins' again.VSeveral more years have passed. Startsev has grown stouter still,has grown corpulent, breathes heavily, and already walks with hishead thrown back. When stout and red in the face, he drives withhis bells and his team of three horses, and Panteleimon, also stoutand red in the face with his thick beefy neck, sits on the box,holding his arms stiffly out before him as though they were madeof wood, and shouts to those he meets: "Keep to the ri-i-ight!" itis an impressive picture; one might think it was not a mortal, butsome heathen deity in his chariot. He has an immense practice inthe town, no time to breathe, and already has an estate and twohouses in the town, and he is looking out for a third more profitable;and when at the Mutual Credit Bank he is told of a house that isfor sale, he goes to the house without ceremony, and, marchingthrough all the rooms, regardless of half-dressed women and childrenwho gaze at him in amazement and alarm, he prods at the doors withhis stick, and says:"Is that the study? Is that a bedroom? And what's here?"And as he does so he breathes heavily and wipes the sweat from hisbrow.He has a great deal to do, but still he does not give up his workas district doctor; he is greedy for gain, and he tries to be inall places at once. At Dyalizh and in the town he is called simply"Ionitch": "Where is Ionitch off to?" or "Should not we call inIonitch to a consultation?"Probably because his throat is covered with rolls of fat, his voicehas changed; it has become thin and sharp. His temper has changed,too: he has grown ill-humoured and irritable. When he sees hispatients he is usually out of temper; he impatiently taps the floorwith his stick, and shouts in his disagreeable voice:"Be so good as to confine yourself to answering my questions! Don'ttalk so much!"He is solitary. He leads a dreary life; nothing interests him.During all the years he had lived at Dyalizh his love for Kittenhad been his one joy, and probably his last. In the evenings heplays _vint_ at the club, and then sits alone at a big table andhas supper. Ivan, the oldest and most respectable of the waiters,serves him, hands him Lafitte No. 17, and every one at the club--the members of the committee, the cook and waiters--know what helikes and what he doesn't like and do their very utmost to satisfyhim, or else he is sure to fly into a rage and bang on the floorwith his stick.As he eats his supper, he turns round from time to time and putsin his spoke in some conversation:"What are you talking about? Eh? Whom?"And when at a neighbouring table there is talk of the Turkins, heasks:"What Turkins are you speaking of? Do you mean the people whosedaughter plays on the piano?"That is all that can be said about him.And the Turkins? Ivan Petrovitch has grown no older; he is notchanged in the least, and still makes jokes and tells anecdotes asof old. Vera Iosifovna still reads her novels aloud to her visitorswith eagerness and touching simplicity. And Kitten plays the pianofor four hours every day. She has grown visibly older, is constantlyailing, and every autumn goes to the Crimea with her mother. WhenIvan Petrovitch sees them off at the station, he wipes his tearsas the train starts, and shouts:"Good-bye, if you please."And he waves his handkerchief.

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