In the Dark Page #2

"In the Dark" is a short story by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov that explores themes of isolation, despair, and the complexities of human relationships. Set in a dimly lit environment, the narrative follows characters grappling with their inner turmoil and emotional struggles. Chekhov skillfully delves into the psyche of his characters, exposing their vulnerabilities and desires, while also highlighting the often unspoken barriers that separate them from one another. The story reflects Chekhov's signature ability to blend humor and poignancy, ultimately leaving readers contemplative about the nature of human connection and solitude.

								

on a peg near the stove."

Gagin felt for the dressing-gown by the stove, put it on, and went
quietly back to his room.

When her husband went out Marya Mihalovna got into bed and waited. For
the first three minutes her mind was at rest, but after that she began
to feel uneasy.

"What a long time he's gone," she thought. "It's all right if he is
there . . . that immoral man . . . but if it's a burglar?"

And again her imagination drew a picture of her husband going into the
dark kitchen . . . a blow with an axe . . . dying without uttering a
single sound . . . a pool of blood! . . .

Five minutes passed . . . five and a half . . . at last six. . . . A
cold sweat came out on her forehead.

"Basile!" she shrieked, "Basile!"

"What are you shouting for? I am here." She heard her husband's voice
and steps. "Are you being murdered?"

The assistant procurator went up to the bedstead and sat down on the
edge of it.

"There's nobody there at all," he said. "It was your fancy, you queer
creature. . . . You can sleep easy, your fool of a Pelagea is as
virtuous as her mistress. What a coward you are! What a . . . ."

And the deputy procurator began teasing his wife. He was wide awake now
and did not want to go to sleep again.

"You are a coward!" he laughed. "You'd better go to the doctor to-morrow
and tell him about your hallucinations. You are a neurotic!"

"What a smell of tar," said his wife--"tar or something . . . onion . . .
cabbage soup!"

"Y-yes! There is a smell . . . I am not sleepy. I say, I'll light the
candle. . . . Where are the matches? And, by the way, I'll show you the
photograph of the procurator of the Palace of Justice. He gave us all a
photograph when he said good-bye to us yesterday, with his autograph."

Gagin struck a match against the wall and lighted a candle. But before
he had moved a step from the bed to fetch the photographs he heard
behind him a piercing, heartrending shriek. Looking round, he saw his
wife's large eyes fastened upon him, full of amazement, horror, and
wrath. . . .

"You took your dressing-gown off in the kitchen?" she said, turning
pale.

"Why?"

"Look at yourself!"

The deputy procurator looked down at himself, and gasped.

Flung over his shoulders was not his dressing-gown, but the fireman's
overcoat. How had it come on his shoulders? While he was settling that
question, his wife's imagination was drawing another picture, awful and
impossible: darkness, stillness, whispering, and so on, and so on.
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