Excellent People Page #4

"Excellent People" is a short story by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov that delves into the lives and dilemmas of various characters, capturing the complexity of human nature and social interactions. The narrative revolves around a gathering at a summer estate where discussions about morality, society, and personal ambitions unfold. With Chekhov's signature wit and keen observations, the story explores themes of hypocrisy, the search for meaning, and the often conflicting desires of individuals, all while highlighting the peculiarities of the human condition. Through sharp dialogue and nuanced character portrayals, Chekhov invites readers to reflect on what it truly means to be 'excellent' in a flawed world.

								

endured her presence in the room as one endures the presence of old
women that are dependent on one. For her part, she left off disputing
with him and met all his arguments, jeers, and attacks with a
condescending silence which irritated him more than ever.

One summer morning Vera Semyonovna, dressed for travelling with a
satchel over her shoulder, went in to her brother and coldly kissed him
on the forehead.

"Where are you going?" he asked with surprise.

"To the province of N. to do vaccination work." Her brother went out
into the street with her.

"So that's what you've decided upon, you queer girl," he muttered.
"Don't you want some money?"

"No, thank you. Good-bye."

The sister shook her brother's hand and set off.

"Why don't you have a cab?" cried Vladimir Semyonitch.

She did not answer. Her brother gazed after her, watched her rusty-
looking waterproof, the swaying of her figure as she slouched along,
forced himself to sigh, but did not succeed in rousing a feeling of
regret. His sister had become a stranger to him. And he was a stranger
to her. Anyway, she did not once look round.

Going back to his room, Vladimir Semyonitch at once sat down to the
table and began to work at his article.

I never saw Vera Semyonovna again. Where she is now I do not know. And
Vladimir Semyonitch went on writing his articles, laying wreaths on
coffins, singing Gaudeamus, busying himself over the Mutual Aid Society
of Moscow Journalists.

He fell ill with inflammation of the lungs; he was ill in bed for three
months--at first at home, and afterwards in the Golitsyn Hospital. An
abscess developed in his knee. People said he ought to be sent to the
Crimea, and began getting up a collection for him. But he did not go to
the Crimea--he died. We buried him in the Vagankovsky Cemetery, on the
left side, where artists and literary men are buried.

One day we writers were sitting in the Tatars' restaurant. I mentioned
that I had lately been in the Vagankovsky Cemetery and had seen Vladimir
Semyonitch's grave there. It was utterly neglected and almost
indistinguishable from the rest of the ground, the cross had fallen; it
was necessary to collect a few roubles to put it in order.

But they listened to what I said unconcernedly, made no answer, and I
could not collect a farthing. No one remembered Vladimir Semyonitch. He
was utterly forgotten.
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