Ariadne Page #5

"Ariadne" is a short story by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov that explores themes of love, loneliness, and the complexities of human relationships. The narrative centers on the character of Ariadne, a woman navigating her intricate feelings for a man who embodies both charm and emotional distance. Through Chekhov's characteristic subtlety and keen observations, the story delves into the emotional nuances of connection and the often unfulfilled desires that accompany it. Chekhov's minimalist style and profound psychological insight make "Ariadne" a poignant reflection on the human condition.

								

cautiously crossed the narrow street, and in my ennui bought some hard
pears from an old peasant woman who, recognising me as a Russian, said:
"Tcheeteery" for "tchetyry" (four)--"davadtsat" for "dvadtsat" (twenty),
and when I wondered in perplexity where to go and what to do here, and
when I inevitably met Russians as disappointed as I was, I began to feel
vexed and ashamed. There is a calm bay there full of steamers and boats
with coloured sails. From there I could see Fiume and the distant
islands covered with lilac mist, and it would have been picturesque if
the view over the bay had not been hemmed in by the hotels and their
dépendances--buildings in an absurd, trivial style of architecture,
with which the whole of that green shore has been covered by greedy
money grubbers, so that for the most part you see nothing in this little
paradise but windows, terraces, and little squares with tables and
waiters' black coats. There is a park such as you find now in every
watering-place abroad. And the dark, motionless, silent foliage of the
palms, and the bright yellow sand in the avenue, and the bright green
seats, and the glitter of the braying military horns--all this sickened
me in ten minutes! And yet one is obliged for some reason to spend ten
days, ten weeks, there!

Having been dragged reluctantly from one of these watering-places to
another, I have been more and more struck by the inconvenient and
niggardly life led by the wealthy and well-fed, the dulness and
feebleness of their imagination, the lack of boldness in their tastes
and desires. And how much happier are those tourists, old and young,
who, not having the money to stay in hotels, live where they can, admire
the view of the sea from the tops of the mountains, lying on the green
grass, walk instead of riding, see the forests and villages at close
quarters, observe the customs of the country, listen to its songs, fall
in love with its women. . . .

While I was sitting in the park, it began to get dark, and in the
twilight my Ariadne appeared, elegant and dressed like a princess; after
her walked Lubkov, wearing a new loose-fitting suit, bought probably in
Vienna.

"Why are you cross with me?" he was saying. "What have I done to you?"

Seeing me, she uttered a cry of joy, and probably, if we had not been in
the park, would have thrown herself on my neck. She pressed my hands
warmly and laughed; and I laughed too and almost cried with emotion.
Questions followed, of the village, of my father, whether I had seen her
brother, and so on. She insisted on my looking her straight in the face,
and asked if I remembered the gudgeon, our little quarrels, the picnics.
. . .

"How nice it all was really!" she sighed. "But we're not having a slow
time here either. We have a great many acquaintances, my dear, my best
of friends! To-morrow I will introduce you to a Russian family here, but
please buy yourself another hat." She scrutinised me and frowned.
"Abbazzia is not the country," she said; "here one must be comme il
faut."

Then we went to the restaurant. Ariadne was laughing and mischievous all
the time; she kept calling me "dear," "good," "clever," and seemed as
though she could not believe her eyes that I was with her. We sat on
till eleven o'clock, and parted very well satisfied both with the supper
and with each other.

Next day Ariadne presented me to the Russian family as: "The son of a
distinguished professor whose estate is next to ours."

She talked to this family about nothing but estates and crops, and kept
appealing to me. She wanted to appear to be a very wealthy landowner,
and did, in fact, succeed in doing so. Her manner was superb like that
of a real aristocrat, which indeed she was by birth.

"But what a person my aunt is!" she said suddenly, looking at me with a
smile. "We had a slight tiff, and she has bolted off to Meran. What do
you say to that?"

Afterwards when we were walking in the park I asked her:

"What aunt were you talking of just now? What aunt is that?"

"That was a saving lie," laughed Ariadne. "They must not know I'm
without a chaperon."

After a moment's silence she came closer to me and said:

"My dear, my dear, do be friends with Lubkov. He is so unhappy! His wife
and mother are simply awful."

She used the formal mode of address in speaking to Lubkov, and when she
was going up to bed she said good-night to him exactly as she did to me,
and their rooms were on different floors. All this made me hope that it
was all nonsense, and that there was no sort of love affair between
them, and I felt at ease when I met him. And when one day he asked me
for the loan of three hundred roubles, I gave it to him with the
greatest pleasure.

Every day we spent in enjoying ourselves and in nothing but enjoying
ourselves; we strolled in the park, we ate, we drank. Every day there
were conversations with the Russian family. By degrees I got used to the
fact that if I went into the park I should be sure to meet the old man
with jaundice, the Catholic priest, and the Austrian General, who always
carried a pack of little cards, and wherever it was possible sat down
and played patience, nervously twitching his shoulders. And the band
played the same thing over and over again.

At home in the country I used to feel ashamed to meet the peasants when
I was fishing or on a picnic party on a working day; here too I was
ashamed at the sight of the footmen, the coachmen, and the workmen who
met us. It always seemed to me they were looking at me and thinking:
"Why are you doing nothing?" And I was conscious of this feeling of
shame every day from morning to night. It was a strange, unpleasant,
monotonous time; it was only varied by Lubkov's borrowing from me now a
hundred, now fifty guldens, and being suddenly revived by the money as a
morphia-maniac is by morphia, beginning to laugh loudly at his wife, at
himself, at his creditors.

At last it began to be rainy and cold. We went to Italy, and I
telegraphed to my father begging him for mercy's sake to send me eight
hundred roubles to Rome. We stayed in Venice, in Bologna, in Florence,
and in every town invariably put up at an expensive hotel, where we were
charged separately for lights, and for service, and for heating, and for
bread at lunch, and for the right of having dinner by ourselves. We ate
enormously. In the morning they gave us café complet; at one o'clock
lunch: meat, fish, some sort of omelette, cheese, fruits, and wine. At
six o'clock dinner of eight courses with long intervals, during which we
drank beer and wine. At nine o'clock tea. At midnight Ariadne would
declare she was hungry, and ask for ham and boiled eggs. We would eat to
keep her company.

In the intervals between meals we used to rush about the museums and
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