Drunk Page #2

"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.

								

one can't describe. To leave her or tell her the truth is utterly
impossible because it would be a scandal, and living with her is worse
than hell for me. I can't stay at home! I spend my days at business and
in the restaurants and spend my nights in dissipation. Come, how is one
to explain this hatred? She is not an ordinary woman, but handsome,
clever, quiet."

The old man stamped his foot and began singing:

"I went a walk with a captain bold, And in his ear my secrets told."

"I must own I always thought that Marya Mihalovna was not at all the
right person for you," said Almer after a brief silence, and he heaved a
sigh.

"Do you mean she is too well educated? . . . I took the gold medal at
the commercial school myself, I have been to Paris three times. I am not
cleverer than you, of course, but I am no more foolish than my wife. No,
brother, education is not the sore point. Let me tell you how all the
trouble began. It began with my suddenly fancying that she had married
me not from love, but for the sake of my money. This idea took
possession of my brain. I have done all I could think of, but the cursed
thing sticks! And to make it worse my wife was overtaken with a passion
for luxury. Getting into a sack of gold after poverty, she took to
flinging it in all directions. She went quite off her head, and was so
carried away that she used to get through twenty thousand every month.
And I am a distrustful man. I don't believe in anyone, I suspect
everybody. And the more friendly you are to me the greater my torment. I
keep fancying I am being flattered for my money. I trust no one! I am a
difficult man, my boy, very difficult!"

Frolov emptied his glass at one gulp and went on.

"But that's all nonsense," he said. "One never ought to speak of it.
It's stupid. I am tipsy and I have been chattering, and now you are
looking at me with lawyer's eyes--glad you know some one else's secret.
Well, well! . . . Let us drop this conversation. Let us drink! I say,"
he said, addressing a waiter, "is Mustafa here? Fetch him in!"

Shortly afterwards there walked into the room a little Tatar boy, aged
about twelve, wearing a dress coat and white gloves.

"Come here!" Frolov said to him. "Explain to us the following fact:
there was a time when you Tatars conquered us and took tribute from us,
but now you serve us as waiters and sell dressing-gowns. How do you
explain such a change?"

Mustafa raised his eyebrows and said in a shrill voice, with a sing-song
intonation: "The mutability of destiny!"

Almer looked at his grave face and went off into peals of laughter.

"Well, give him a rouble!" said Frolov. "He is making his fortune out of
the mutability of destiny. He is only kept here for the sake of those
two words. Drink, Mustafa! You will make a gre-eat rascal! I mean it is
awful how many of your sort are toadies hanging about rich men. The
number of these peaceful bandits and robbers is beyond all reckoning!
Shouldn't we send for the gypsies now? Eh? Fetch the gypsies along!"

The gypsies, who had been hanging about wearily in the corridors for a
long time, burst with whoops into the room, and a wild orgy began.

"Drink!" Frolov shouted to them. "Drink! Seed of Pharaoh! Sing! A-a-ah!"

"In the winter time . . . o-o-ho! . . . the sledge was flying . . ."

The gypsies sang, whistled, danced. In the frenzy which sometimes takes
possession of spoilt and very wealthy men, "broad natures," Frolov began
to play the fool. He ordered supper and champagne for the gypsies, broke
the shade of the electric light, shied bottles at the pictures and
looking-glasses, and did it all apparently without the slightest
enjoyment, scowling and shouting irritably, with contempt for the
people, with an expression of hatred in his eyes and his manners. He
made the engineer sing a solo, made the bass singers drink a mixture of
wine, vodka, and oil.

At six o'clock they handed him the bill.

"Nine hundred and twenty-five roubles, forty kopecks," said Almer, and
shrugged his shoulders. "What's it for? No, wait, we must go into it!"

"Stop!" muttered Frolov, pulling out his pocket-book. "Well! . . . let
them rob me. That's what I'm rich for, to be robbed! . . . You can't get
on without parasites! . . . You are my lawyer. You get six thousand a
year out of me and what for? But excuse me, . . . I don't know what I am
saying."

As he was returning home with Almer, Frolov murmured:

"Going home is awful to me! Yes! . . . There isn't a human being I can
open my soul to. . . . They are all robbers . . . traitors . . . . Oh,
why did I tell you my secret? Yes . . . why? Tell me why?"

At the entrance to his house, he craned forward towards Almer and,
staggering, kissed him on the lips, having the old Moscow habit of
kissing indiscriminately on every occasion.

"Good-bye . . . I am a difficult, hateful man," he said. "A horrid,
drunken, shameless life. You are a well-educated, clever man, but you
only laugh and drink with me . . . there's no help from any of you. . .
. But if you were a friend to me, if you were an honest man, in reality
you ought to have said to me: 'Ugh, you vile, hateful man! You
reptile!'"

"Come, come," Almer muttered, "go to bed."

"There is no help from you; the only hope is that, when I am in the
country in the summer, I may go out into the fields and a storm come on
and the thunder may strike me dead on the spot. . . . Good-bye."

Frolov kissed Almer once more and muttering and dropping asleep as he
walked, began mounting the stairs, supported by two footmen.
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