Expensive Lessons Page #2

"Expensive Lessons" is a poignant short story by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov that explores themes of social class, morality, and the complexities of human relationships. The narrative revolves around a wealthy man who, after a series of personal misadventures, comes to understand the true cost of his privilege. Chekhov's signature style combines subtle humor with deep psychological insight, ultimately revealing the emotional and ethical lessons learned through life's hardships. This tale invites readers to reflect on the value of compassion and the often unseen consequences of one's actions.

								

her eyes, began nervously fingering her slender gold chain. And Vorotov,
seeing her perturbation, realised how much a rouble meant to her, and
how bitter it would be to her to lose what she was earning.

"I ought to tell you," he muttered, growing more and more confused, and
quavering inwardly; he hurriedly stuffed the envelope into his pocket
and went on: "Excuse me, I . . . I must leave you for ten minutes."

And trying to appear as though he had not in the least meant to get rid
of her, but only to ask her permission to leave her for a short time, he
went into the next room and sat there for ten minutes. And then he
returned more embarrassed than ever: it struck him that she might have
interpreted his brief absence in some way of her own, and he felt
awkward.

The lessons began again. Yorotov felt no interest in them. Realising
that he would gain nothing from the lessons, he gave the French girl
liberty to do as she liked, asking her nothing and not interrupting her.
She translated away as she pleased ten pages during a lesson, and he did
not listen, breathed hard, and having nothing better to do, gazed at her
curly head, or her soft white hands or her neck and sniffed the
fragrance of her clothes. He caught himself thinking very unsuitable
thoughts, and felt ashamed, or he was moved to tenderness, and then he
felt vexed and wounded that she was so cold and business-like with him,
and treated him as a pupil, never smiling and seeming afraid that he
might accidentally touch her. He kept wondering how to inspire her with
confidence and get to know her better, and to help her, to make her
understand how badly she taught, poor thing.

One day Mdlle. Enqu?e came to the lesson in a smart pink dress,
slightly décolleté, and surrounded by such a fragrance that she seemed
to be wrapped in a cloud, and, if one blew upon her, ready to fly away
into the air or melt away like smoke. She apologised and said she could
stay only half an hour for the lesson, as she was going straight from
the lesson to a dance.

He looked at her throat and the back of her bare neck, and thought he
understood why Frenchwomen had the reputation of frivolous creatures
easily seduced; he was carried away by this cloud of fragrance, beauty,
and bare flesh, while she, unconscious of his thoughts and probably not
in the least interested in them, rapidly turned over the pages and
translated at full steam:

"'He was walking the street and meeting a gentleman his friend and
saying, "Where are you striving to seeing your face so pale it makes me
sad."'"

The "Mémoires" had long been finished, and now Alice was translating
some other book. One day she came an hour too early for the lesson,
apologizing and saying that she wanted to leave at seven and go to the
Little Theatre. Seeing her out after the lesson, Vorotov dressed and
went to the theatre himself. He went, and fancied that he was going
simply for change and amusement, and that he was not thinking about
Alice at all. He could not admit that a serious man, preparing for a
learned career, lethargic in his habits, could fling up his work and go
to the theatre simply to meet there a girl he knew very little, who was
unintelligent and utterly unintellectual.

Yet for some reason his heart was beating during the intervals, and
without realizing what he was doing, he raced about the corridors and
foyer like a boy impatiently looking for some one, and he was
disappointed when the interval was over. And when he saw the familiar
pink dress and the handsome shoulders under the tulle, his heart
quivered as though with a foretaste of happiness; he smiled joyfully,
and for the first time in his life experienced the sensation of
jealousy.

Alice was walking with two unattractive-looking students and an officer.
She was laughing, talking loudly, and obviously flirting. Vorotov had
never seen her like that. She was evidently happy, contented, warm,
sincere. What for? Why? Perhaps because these men were her friends and
belonged to her own circle. And Vorotov felt there was a terrible gulf
between himself and that circle. He bowed to his teacher, but she gave
him a chilly nod and walked quickly by; she evidently did not care for
her friends to know that she had pupils, and that she had to give
lessons to earn money.

After the meeting at the theatre Vorotov realised that he was in love. .
. . During the subsequent lessons he feasted his eyes on his elegant
teacher, and without struggling with himself, gave full rein to his
imaginations, pure and impure. Mdlle. Enqu?e's face did not cease to
be cold; precisely at eight o'clock every evening she said coldly, "Au
revoir, monsieur," and he felt she cared nothing about him, and never
would care anything about him, and that his position was hopeless.

Sometimes in the middle of a lesson he would begin dreaming, hoping,
making plans. He inwardly composed declarations of love, remembered that
Frenchwomen were frivolous and easily won, but it was enough for him to
glance at the face of his teacher for his ideas to be extinguished as a
candle is blown out when you bring it into the wind on the verandah.
Once, overcome, forgetting himself as though in delirium, he could not
restrain himself, and barred her way as she was going from the study
into the entry after the lesson, and, gasping for breath and stammering,
began to declare his love:

"You are dear to me! I . . . I love you! Allow me to speak."

And Alice turned pale--probably from dismay, reflecting that after this
declaration she could not come here again and get a rouble a lesson.
With a frightened look in her eyes she said in a loud whisper:

"Ach, you mustn't! Don't speak, I entreat you! You mustn't!"

And Vorotov did not sleep all night afterwards; he was tortured by
shame; he blamed himself and thought intensely. It seemed to him that he
had insulted the girl by his declaration, that she would not come to him
again.

He resolved to find out her address from the address bureau in the
morning, and to write her a letter of apology. But Alice came without a
letter. For the first minute she felt uncomfortable, then she opened a
book and began briskly and rapidly translating as usual:

"'Oh, young gentleman, don't tear those flowers in my garden which I
want to be giving to my ill daughter. . . .'"

She still comes to this day. Four books have already been translated,
but Vorotov knows no French but the word "Mémoires," and when he is
asked about his literary researches, he waves his hand, and without
answering, turns the conversation to the weather.
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