An Avenger

"An Avenger" is a short story by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov that explores themes of justice, revenge, and the complexities of human emotions. The narrative revolves around a protagonist who confronts the moral dilemmas associated with seeking vengeance. Chekhov's signature style shines through in his subtle character development and the mundane setting, which ultimately highlight the profound psychological depth of his characters. The story invites readers to reflect on the consequences of their actions and the nature of retribution, skillfully blending irony with a poignant examination of human motives.

								
SHORTLY after finding his wife in flagrante delicto Fyodor Fyodorovitch
Sigaev was standing in Schmuck and Co.'s, the gunsmiths, selecting a
suitable revolver. His countenance expressed wrath, grief, and
unalterable determination.

"I know what I must do," he was thinking. "The sanctities of the home
are outraged, honour is trampled in the mud, vice is triumphant, and
therefore as a citizen and a man of honour I must be their avenger.
First, I will kill her and her lover and then myself."

He had not yet chosen a revolver or killed anyone, but already in
imagination he saw three bloodstained corpses, broken skulls, brains
oozing from them, the commotion, the crowd of gaping spectators, the
post-mortem. . . . With the malignant joy of an insulted man he pictured
the horror of the relations and the public, the agony of the traitress,
and was mentally reading leading articles on the destruction of the
traditions of the home.

The shopman, a sprightly little Frenchified figure with rounded belly
and white waistcoat, displayed the revolvers, and smiling respectfully
and scraping with his little feet observed:

". . . I would advise you, M'sieur, to take this superb revolver, the
Smith and Wesson pattern, the last word in the science of firearms:
triple-action, with ejector, kills at six hundred paces, central sight.
Let me draw your attention, M'sieu, to the beauty of the finish. The
most fashionable system, M'sieu. We sell a dozen every day for burglars,
wolves, and lovers. Very correct and powerful action, hits at a great
distance, and kills wife and lover with one bullet. As for suicide,
M'sieu, I don't know a better pattern."

The shopman pulled and cocked the trigger, breathed on the barrel, took
aim, and affected to be breathless with delight. Looking at his ecstatic
countenance, one might have supposed that he would readily have put a
bullet through his brains if he had only possessed a revolver of such a
superb pattern as a Smith-Wesson.

"And what price?" asked Sigaev.

"Forty-five roubles, M'sieu."

"Mm! . . . that's too dear for me."

"In that case, M'sieu, let me offer you another make, somewhat cheaper.
Here, if you'll kindly look, we have an immense choice, at all prices. .
. . Here, for instance, this revolver of the Lefaucher pattern costs
only eighteen roubles, but . . ." (the shopman pursed up his face
contemptuously) ". . . but, M'sieu, it's an old-fashioned make. They are
only bought by hysterical ladies or the mentally deficient. To commit
suicide or shoot one's wife with a Lefaucher revolver is considered bad
form nowadays. Smith-Wesson is the only pattern that's correct style."

"I don't want to shoot myself or to kill anyone," said Sigaev, lying
sullenly. "I am buying it simply for a country cottage . . . to frighten
away burglars. . . ."

"That's not our business, what object you have in buying it." The
shopman smiled, dropping his eyes discreetly. "If we were to investigate
the object in each case, M'sieu, we should have to close our shop. To
frighten burglars Lefaucher is not a suitable pattern, M'sieu, for it
goes off with a faint, muffled sound. I would suggest Mortimer's, the
so-called duelling pistol. . . ."

"Shouldn't I challenge him to a duel?" flashed through Sigaev's mind.
"It's doing him too much honour, though. . . . Beasts like that are
killed like dogs. . . ."

The shopman, swaying gracefully and tripping to and fro on his little
feet, still smiling and chattering, displayed before him a heap of
revolvers. The most inviting and impressive of all was the Smith and
Wesson's. Sigaev picked up a pistol of that pattern, gazed blankly at
it, and sank into brooding. His imagination pictured how he would blow
out their brains, how blood would flow in streams over the rug and the
parquet, how the traitress's legs would twitch in her last agony. . . .
But that was not enough for his indignant soul. The picture of blood,
wailing, and horror did not satisfy him. He must think of something more
terrible.

"I know! I'll kill myself and him," he thought, "but I'll leave her
alive. Let her pine away from the stings of conscience and the contempt
of all surrounding her. For a sensitive nature like hers that will be
far more agonizing than death."

And he imagined his own funeral: he, the injured husband, lies in his
coffin with a gentle smile on his lips, and she, pale, tortured by
remorse, follows the coffin like a Niobe, not knowing where to hide
herself to escape from the withering, contemptuous looks cast upon her
by the indignant crowd.

"I see, M'sieu, that you like the Smith and Wesson make," the shopman
broke in upon his broodings. "If you think it too dear, very well, I'll
knock off five roubles. . . . But we have other makes, cheaper."

The little Frenchified figure turned gracefully and took down another
dozen cases of revolvers from the shelf.

"Here, M'sieu, price thirty roubles. That's not expensive, especially as
the rate of exchange has dropped terribly and the Customs duties are
rising every hour. M'sieu, I vow I am a Conservative, but even I am
beginning to murmur. Why, with the rate of exchange and the Customs
tariff, only the rich can purchase firearms. There's nothing left for
the poor but Tula weapons and phosphorus matches, and Tula weapons are a
misery! You may aim at your wife with a Tula revolver and shoot yourself
through the shoulder-blade."

Sigaev suddenly felt mortified and sorry that he would be dead, and
would miss seeing the agonies of the traitress. Revenge is only sweet
when one can see and taste its fruits, and what sense would there be in
it if he were lying in his coffin, knowing nothing about it?

"Hadn't I better do this?" he pondered. "I'll kill him, then I'll go to
his funeral and look on, and after the funeral I'll kill myself. They'd
arrest me, though, before the funeral, and take away my pistol. . . .
And so I'll kill him, she shall remain alive, and I . . . for the time,
I'll not kill myself, but go and be arrested. I shall always have time
to kill myself. There will be this advantage about being arrested, that
at the preliminary investigation I shall have an opportunity of exposing
to the authorities and to the public all the infamy of her conduct. If I
kill myself she may, with her characteristic duplicity and impudence,
throw all the blame on me, and society will justify her behaviour and
will very likely laugh at me. . . . If I remain alive, then . . ."

A minute later he was thinking:

"Yes, if I kill myself I may be blamed and suspected of petty feeling. .
. . Besides, why should I kill myself? That's one thing. And for
another, to shoot oneself is cowardly. And so I'll kill him and let her
live, and I'll face my trial. I shall be tried, and she will be brought
into court as a witness. . . . I can imagine her confusion, her disgrace

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