Drunk

"Drunk" is a short story by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov that explores themes of human folly, societal norms, and the consequences of alcohol. Set in a small Russian village, the narrative revolves around the main character, a drunken man, who engages in a series of humorous yet poignant encounters with the townspeople. Through witty dialogue and keen observation, Chekhov sheds light on the absurdities of life and the complexities of human relationships, ultimately reflecting on the nature of addiction and the quest for meaning amidst personal and social chaos. The story showcases Chekhov's signature blend of realism and irony, inviting readers to contemplate the fragile balance between laughter and sorrow in the human experience.

								
A MANUFACTURER called Frolov, a handsome dark man with a round beard,
and a soft, velvety expression in his eyes, and Almer, his lawyer, an
elderly man with a big rough head, were drinking in one of the public
rooms of a restaurant on the outskirts of the town. They had both come
to the restaurant straight from a ball and so were wearing dress coats
and white ties. Except them and the waiters at the door there was not a
soul in the room; by Frolov's orders no one else was admitted.

They began by drinking a big wine-glass of vodka and eating oysters.

"Good!" said Almer. "It was I brought oysters into fashion for the first
course, my boy. The vodka burns and stings your throat and you have a
voluptuous sensation in your throat when you swallow an oyster. Don't
you?"

A dignified waiter with a shaven upper lip and grey whiskers put a
sauceboat on the table.

"What's that you are serving?" asked Frolov.

"Sauce Provençale for the herring, sir. . . ."

"What! is that the way to serve it?" shouted Frolov, not looking into
the sauceboat. "Do you call that sauce? You don't know how to wait, you
blockhead!"

Frolov's velvety eyes flashed. He twisted a corner of the table-cloth
round his finger, made a slight movement, and the dishes, the
candlesticks, and the bottles, all jingling and clattering, fell with a
crash on the floor.

The waiters, long accustomed to pot-house catastrophes, ran up to the
table and began picking up the fragments with grave and unconcerned
faces, like surgeons at an operation.

"How well you know how to manage them!" said Almer, and he laughed. "But
. . . move a little away from the table or you will step in the
caviare."

"Call the engineer here!" cried Frolov.

This was the name given to a decrepit, doleful old man who really had
once been an engineer and very well off; he had squandered all his
property and towards the end of his life had got into a restaurant where
he looked after the waiters and singers and carried out various
commissions relating to the fair sex. Appearing at the summons, he put
his head on one side respectfully.

"Listen, my good man," Frolov said, addressing him. "What's the meaning
of this disorder? How queerly you fellows wait! Don't you know that I
don't like it? Devil take you, I shall give up coming to you!"

"I beg you graciously to excuse it, Alexey Semyonitch!" said the
engineer, laying his hand on his heart. "I will take steps immediately,
and your slightest wishes shall be carried out in the best and speediest
way."

"Well, that'll do, you can go. . . ."

The engineer bowed, staggered back, still doubled up, and disappeared
through the doorway with a final flash of the false diamonds on his
shirt-front and fingers.

The table was laid again. Almer drank red wine and ate with relish some
sort of bird served with truffles, and ordered a matelote of eelpouts
and a sterlet with its tail in its mouth. Frolov only drank vodka and
ate nothing but bread. He rubbed his face with his open hands, scowled,
and was evidently out of humour. Both were silent. There was a
stillness. Two electric lights in opaque shades flickered and hissed as
though they were angry. The gypsy girls passed the door, softly humming.

"One drinks and is none the merrier," said Frolov. "The more I pour into
myself, the more sober I become. Other people grow festive with vodka,
but I suffer from anger, disgusting thoughts, sleeplessness. Why is it,
old man, that people don't invent some other pleasure besides
drunkenness and debauchery? It's really horrible!"

"You had better send for the gypsy girls."

"Confound them!"

The head of an old gypsy woman appeared in the door from the passage.

"Alexey Semyonitch, the gypsies are asking for tea and brandy," said the
old woman. "May we order it?"

"Yes," answered Frolov. "You know they get a percentage from the
restaurant keeper for asking the visitors to treat them. Nowadays you
can't even believe a man when he asks for vodka. The people are all
mean, vile, spoilt. Take these waiters, for instance. They have
countenances like professors, and grey heads; they get two hundred
roubles a month, they live in houses of their own and send their girls
to the high school, but you may swear at them and give yourself airs as
much as you please. For a rouble the engineer will gulp down a whole pot
of mustard and crow like a cock. On my honour, if one of them would take
offence I would make him a present of a thousand roubles."

"What's the matter with you?" said Almer, looking at him with surprise.
"Whence this melancholy? You are red in the face, you look like a wild
animal. . . . What's the matter with you?"

"It's horrid. There's one thing I can't get out of my head. It seems as
though it is nailed there and it won't come out."

A round little old man, buried in fat and completely bald, wearing a
short reefer jacket and lilac waistcoat and carrying a guitar, walked
into the room. He made an idiotic face, drew himself up, and saluted
like a soldier.

"Ah, the parasite!" said Frolov, "let me introduce him, he has made his
fortune by grunting like a pig. Come here!" He poured vodka, wine, and
brandy into a glass, sprinkled pepper and salt into it, mixed it all up
and gave it to the parasite. The latter tossed it off and smacked his
lips with gusto.

"He's accustomed to drink a mess so that pure wine makes him sick," said
Frolov. "Come, parasite, sit down and sing."

The old man sat down, touched the strings with his fat fingers, and
began singing:

"Neetka, neetka, Margareetka. . . ."

After drinking champagne Frolov was drunk. He thumped with his fist on
the table and said:

"Yes, there's something that sticks in my head! It won't give me a
minute's peace!"

"Why, what is it?"

"I can't tell you. It's a secret. It's something so private that I could
only speak of it in my prayers. But if you like . . . as a sign of
friendship, between ourselves . . . only mind, to no one, no, no, no, .
. . I'll tell you, it will ease my heart, but for God's sake . . .
listen and forget it. . . ."

Frolov bent down to Almer and for a minute breathed in his ear.

"I hate my wife!" he brought out.

The lawyer looked at him with surprise.

"Yes, yes, my wife, Marya Mihalovna," Frolov muttered, flushing red. "I
hate her and that's all about it."

"What for?"

"I don't know myself! I've only been married two years. I married as you
know for love, and now I hate her like a mortal enemy, like this
parasite here, saving your presence. And there is no cause, no sort of
cause! When she sits by me, eats, or says anything, my whole soul boils,
I can scarcely restrain myself from being rude to her. It's something

								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes