From the Diary of a Violent-tempered Man Page #2

"From the Diary of a Violent-tempered Man" is a poignant and introspective short story by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov that explores the inner turmoil of its protagonist, a man grappling with his intense emotions and erratic behavior. Through diary entries, the reader gains insight into his struggles with anger, self-reflection, and the impacts of his temperament on relationships and societal interactions. Chekhov masterfully conveys the complexities of human nature, illustrating how one's inner conflicts can lead to isolation and the longing for understanding and change. The narrative serves as a powerful examination of the emotional landscape and the human condition.

								

in his mouth. I roll up little balls of bread, think about the dog
licence, and, knowing the ungovernable violence of my temper, try to
avoid speaking. Nadenka looks at me sympathetically.

Soup, tongue and peas, roast fowl, and compôte. I have no appetite, but
eat from politeness.

After dinner, while I am standing alone on the terrace, smoking,
Nadenka's mamma comes up to me, presses my hand, and says breathlessly:

"Don't despair, Nicolas! She has such a heart, . . . such a heart! . .
."

We go towards the wood to gather mushrooms. Varenka hangs on my arm and
clings to my side. My sufferings are indescribable, but I bear them in
patience.

We enter the wood.

"Listen, Monsieur Nicolas," says Nadenka, sighing. "Why are you so
melancholy? And why are you so silent?"

Extraordinary girl she is, really! What can I talk to her about? What
have we in common?

"Oh, do say something!" she begs me.

I begin trying to think of something popular, something within the range
of her understanding. After a moment's thought I say:

"The cutting down of forests has been greatly detrimental to the
prosperity of Russia. . . ."

"Nicolas," sighs Nadenka, and her nose begins to turn red, "Nicolas, I
see you are trying to avoid being open with me. . . . You seem to wish
to punish me by your silence. Your feeling is not returned, and you wish
to suffer in silence, in solitude . . . it is too awful, Nicolas!" she
cries impulsively seizing my hand, and I see her nose beginning to
swell. "What would you say if the girl you love were to offer you her
eternal friendship?"

I mutter something incoherent, for I really can't think what to say to
her.

In the first place, I'm not in love with any girl at all; in the second,
what could I possibly want her eternal friendship for? and, thirdly, I
have a violent temper.

Mashenka (or Varenka) hides her face in her hands and murmurs, as though
to herself:

"He will not speak; . . . it is clear that he will have me make the
sacrifice! I cannot love him, if my heart is still another's . . . but .
. . I will think of it. . . . Very good, I will think of it . . . I will
prove the strength of my soul, and perhaps, at the cost of my own
happiness, I will save this man from suffering!" . . .

I can make nothing out of all this. It seems some special sort of
puzzle.

We go farther into the wood and begin picking mushrooms. We are
perfectly silent the whole time. Nadenka's face shows signs of inward
struggle. I hear the bark of dogs; it reminds me of my dissertation, and
I sigh heavily. Between the trees I catch sight of the wounded officer
limping painfully along. The poor fellow's right leg is lame from his
wound, and on his left arm he has one of the variegated young ladies.
His face expresses resignation to destiny.

We go back to the house to drink tea, after which we play croquet and
listen to one of the variegated young ladies singing a song: "No, no,
thou lovest not, no, no." At the word "no" she twists her mouth till it
almost touches one ear.

"Charmant!" wail the other young ladies, "Charmant!"

The evening comes on. A detestable moon creeps up behind the bushes.
There is perfect stillness in the air, and an unpleasant smell of
freshly cut hay. I take up my hat and try to get away.

"I have something I must say to you!" Mashenka whispers to me
significantly, "don't go away!"

I have a foreboding of evil, but politeness obliges me to remain.
Mashenka takes my arm and leads me away to a garden walk. By this time
her whole figure expresses conflict. She is pale and gasping for breath,
and she seems absolutely set on pulling my right arm out of the socket.
What can be the matter with her?

"Listen!" she mutters. "No, I cannot! No! . . ." She tries to say
something, but hesitates. Now I see from her face that she has come to
some decision. With gleaming eyes and swollen nose she snatches my hand,
and says hurriedly, "Nicolas, I am yours! Love you I cannot, but I
promise to be true to you!"

Then she squeezes herself to my breast, and at once springs away.

"Someone is coming," she whispers. "Farewell! . . . To-morrow at eleven
o'clock I will be in the arbour. . . . Farewell!"

And she vanishes. Completely at a loss for an explanation of her conduct
and suffering from a painful palpitation of the heart, I make my way
home. There the "Past and Future of the Dog Licence" is awaiting me, but
I am quite unable to work. I am furious. . . . I may say, my anger is
terrible. Damn it all! I allow no one to treat me like a boy, I am a man
of violent temper, and it is not safe to trifle with me!

When the maid comes in to call me to supper, I shout to her: "Go out of
the room!" Such hastiness augurs nothing good.

Next morning. Typical holiday weather. Temperature below freezing, a
cutting wind, rain, mud, and a smell of naphthaline, because my maman
has taken all her wraps out of her trunks. A devilish morning! It is the
7th of August, 1887, the date of the solar eclipse. I may here remark
that at the time of an eclipse every one of us may, without special
astronomical knowledge, be of the greatest service. Thus, for example,
anyone of us can (1) take the measurement of the diameters of the sun
and the moon; (2) sketch the corona of the sun; (3) take the
temperature; (4) take observations of plants and animals during the
eclipse; (5) note down his own impressions, and so on.

It is a matter of such exceptional importance that I lay aside the "Past
and Future of the Dog Licence" and make up my mind to observe the
eclipse.

We all get up very early, and I divide the work as follows: I am to
measure the diameter of the sun and moon; the wounded officer is to
sketch the corona; and the other observations are undertaken by Mashenka
and the variegated young ladies.

We all meet together and wait.

"What is the cause of the eclipse?" asks Mashenka.

I reply: "A solar eclipse occurs when the moon, moving in the plane of
the ecliptic, crosses the line joining the centres of the sun and the
earth."

"And what does the ecliptic mean?"

I explain. Mashenka listens attentively.

"Can one see through the smoked glass the line joining the centres of
the sun and the earth?" she enquires.

I reply that this is only an imaginary line, drawn theoretically.

"If it is only an imaginary line, how can the moon cross it?" Varenka
says, wondering.

I make no reply. I feel my spleen rising at this naïve question.

"It's all nonsense," says Mashenka's maman. "Impossible to tell what's
going to happen. You've never been in the sky, so what can you know of
what is to happen with the sun and moon? It's all fancy."

At that moment a black patch begins to move over the sun. General
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