An Inadvertence Page #2

"An Inadvertence" is a poignant short story by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov that explores themes of human relationships and the complexities of misunderstandings. The narrative revolves around a seemingly trivial moment that escalates into a reflection on the fragility of personal connections. Through subtle characterization and Chekhov's signature style, the story examines how a simple oversight can lead to deeper revelations about love, regret, and the intricacies of social interactions. It highlights Chekhov's keen observations of human nature and his ability to convey profound truths through everyday scenarios.

								


"H'm . . . you don't regard us chemists as human beings, and disturb our
rest even at four o'clock at night, though every dog, every cat, can
rest in peace. . . . You don't try to understand anything, and to your
thinking we are not people and our nerves are like cords."

Strizhin listened to the chemist, heaved a sigh, and went home.

"So I am fated to die," he thought.

And in his mouth was a burning and a taste of paraffin, there were
twinges in his stomach, and a sound of boom, boom, boom in his ears.
Every moment it seemed to him that his end was near, that his heart was
no longer beating.

Returning home he made haste to write: "Let no one be blamed for my
death," then he said his prayers, lay down and pulled the bedclothes
over his head. He lay awake till morning expecting death, and all the
time he kept fancying how his grave would be covered with fresh green
grass and how the birds would twitter over it. . . .

And in the morning he was sitting on his bed, saying with a smile to
Dashenka:

"One who leads a steady and regular life, dear sister, is unaffected by
any poison. Take me, for example. I have been on the verge of death. I
was dying and in agony, yet now I am all right. There is only a burning
in my mouth and a soreness in my throat, but I am all right all over,
thank God. . . . And why? It's because of my regular life."

"No, it's because it's inferior paraffin!" sighed Dashenka, thinking of
the household expenses and gazing into space. "The man at the shop could
not have given me the best quality, but that at three farthings. I am a
martyr, I am a miserable woman. You monsters! May you suffer the same,
in the world to come, accursed Herods. . . ."

And she went on and on. . . .
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