In Exile

"In Exile" is a poignant short story by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov that explores themes of alienation, social injustice, and the human condition. Set against the backdrop of Siberia, the narrative follows the lives of political exiles who endure hardships and reflect on their pasts. Through vivid characterizations and a keen observation of the complexities of human emotions, Chekhov highlights the struggles for dignity and freedom in a repressive environment. The story is a powerful commentary on the impact of societal constraints and the enduring hope for liberation.

								
OLD SEMYON, nicknamed Canny, and a young Tatar, whom no one knew by
name, were sitting on the river-bank by the camp-fire; the other three
ferrymen were in the hut. Semyon, an old man of sixty, lean and
toothless, but broad shouldered and still healthy-looking, was drunk; he
would have gone in to sleep long before, but he had a bottle in his
pocket and he was afraid that the fellows in the hut would ask him for
vodka. The Tatar was ill and weary, and wrapping himself up in his rags
was describing how nice it was in the Simbirsk province, and what a
beautiful and clever wife he had left behind at home. He was not more
than twenty five, and now by the light of the camp-fire, with his pale
and sick, mournful face, he looked like a boy.

"To be sure, it is not paradise here," said Canny. "You can see for
yourself, the water, the bare banks, clay, and nothing else.... Easter
has long passed and yet there is ice on the river, and this morning
there was snow..."

"It's bad! it's bad!" said the Tatar, and looked round him in terror.

The dark, cold river was flowing ten paces away; it grumbled, lapped
against the hollow clay banks and raced on swiftly towards the far-away
sea. Close to the bank there was the dark blur of a big barge, which the
ferrymen called a "karbos." Far away on the further bank, lights, dying
down and flickering up again, zigzagged like little snakes; they were
burning last year's grass. And beyond the little snakes there was
darkness again. There little icicles could be heard knocking against the
barge. It was damp and cold....

The Tatar glanced at the sky. There were as many stars as at home, and
the same blackness all round, but something was lacking. At home in the
Simbirsk province the stars were quite different, and so was the sky.

"It's bad! it's bad!" he repeated.

"You will get used to it," said Semyon, and he laughed. "Now you are
young and foolish, the milk is hardly dry on your lips, and it seems to
you in your foolishness that you are more wretched than anyone; but the
time will come when you will say to yourself: 'I wish no one a better
life than mine.' You look at me. Within a week the floods will be over
and we shall set up the ferry; you will all go wandering off about
Siberia while I shall stay and shall begin going from bank to bank. I've
been going like that for twenty-two years, day and night. The pike and
the salmon are under the water while I am on the water. And thank God
for it, I want nothing; God give everyone such a life."

The Tatar threw some dry twigs on the camp-fire, lay down closer to the
blaze, and said:

"My father is a sick man. When he dies my mother and wife will come
here. They have promised."

"And what do you want your wife and mother for?" asked Canny. "That's
mere foolishness, my lad. It's the devil confounding you, damn his soul!
Don't you listen to him, the cursed one. Don't let him have his way. He
is at you about the women, but you spite him; say, 'I don't want them!'
He is on at you about freedom, but you stand up to him and say: 'I don't
want it!' I want nothing, neither father nor mother, nor wife, nor
freedom, nor post, nor paddock; I want nothing, damn their souls!"

Semyon took a pull at the bottle and went on:

"I am not a simple peasant, not of the working class, but the son of a
deacon, and when I was free I lived at Kursk; I used to wear a
frockcoat, and now I have brought myself to such a pass that I can sleep
naked on the ground and eat grass. And I wish no one a better life. I
want nothing and I am afraid of nobody, and the way I look at it is that
there is nobody richer and freer than I am. When they sent me here from
Russia from the first day I stuck it out; I want nothing! The devil was
at me about my wife and about my home and about freedom, but I told him:
'I want nothing.' I stuck to it, and here you see I live well, and I
don't complain, and if anyone gives way to the devil and listens to him,
if but once, he is lost, there is no salvation for him: he is sunk in
the bog to the crown of his head and will never get out.

"It is not only a foolish peasant like you, but even gentlemen, well-
educated people, are lost. Fifteen years ago they sent a gentleman here
from Russia. He hadn't shared something with his brothers and had forged
something in a will. They did say he was a prince or a baron, but maybe
he was simply an official--who knows? Well, the gentleman arrived here,
and first thing he bought himself a house and land in Muhortinskoe. 'I
want to live by my own work,' says he, 'in the sweat of my brow, for I
am not a gentleman now,' says he, 'but a settler.' 'Well,' says I, 'God
help you, that's the right thing.' He was a young man then, busy and
careful; he used to mow himself and catch fish and ride sixty miles on
horseback. Only this is what happened: from the very first year he took
to riding to Gyrino for the post; he used to stand on my ferry and sigh:
'Ech, Semyon, how long it is since they sent me any money from home!'
'You don't want money, Vassily Sergeyitch,' says I. 'What use is it to
you? You cast away the past, and forget it as though it had never been
at all, as though it had been a dream, and begin to live anew. Don't
listen to the devil,' says I; 'he will bring you to no good, he'll draw
you into a snare. Now you want money,' says I, 'but in a very little
while you'll be wanting something else, and then more and more. If you
want to be happy,' says I, the chief thing is not to want anything.
Yes.... If,' says I, 'if Fate has wronged you and me cruelly it's no
good asking for her favor and bowing down to her, but you despise her
and laugh at her, or else she will laugh at you.' That's what I said to
him....

"Two years later I ferried him across to this side, and he was rubbing
his hands and laughing. 'I am going to Gyrino to meet my wife,' says he.
'She was sorry for me,' says he; 'she has come. She is good and kind.'
And he was breathless with joy. So a day later he came with his wife. A
beautiful young lady in a hat; in her arms was a baby girl. And lots of
luggage of all sorts. And my Vassily Sergeyitch was fussing round her;
he couldn't take his eyes off her and couldn't say enough in praise of
her. 'Yes, brother Semyon, even in Siberia people can live!' 'Oh, all
right,' thinks I, 'it will be a different tale presently.' And from that
time forward he went almost every week to inquire whether money had not
come from Russia. He wanted a lot of money. 'She is losing her youth and
beauty here in Siberia for my sake,' says he, 'and sharing my bitter lot
with me, and so I ought,' says he, 'to provide her with every
comfort....'

"To make it livelier for the lady he made acquaintance with the
officials and all sorts of riff-raff. And of course he had to give food
and drink to all that crew, and there had to be a piano and a shaggy
lapdog on the sofa--plague take it!... Luxury, in fact, self-indulgence.

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