Kashtanka Page #4

"Kashtanka" is a short story by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov that follows the life of a stray dog named Kashtanka. After getting lost from her owner, she encounters a kind-hearted circus performer who takes her in. The story captures the themes of loyalty, survival, and the bond between humans and animals as Kashtanka adapts to her new life while reflecting on her past. Through her experiences, Chekhov explores the complexities of love and belonging, highlighting the emotional depth of both the dog and the people she interacts with. The narrative is rich with Chekhov's signature observational humor and poignant insight into the human condition.

								

lessons. Their master got up late, and immediately after drinking his
tea began teaching them their tricks. Every day the frame, the whip, and
the hoop were brought in, and every day almost the same performance took
place. The lesson lasted three or four hours, so that sometimes Fyodor
Timofeyitch was so tired that he staggered about like a drunken man, and
Ivan Ivanitch opened his beak and breathed heavily, while their master
became red in the face and could not mop the sweat from his brow fast
enough.

The lesson and the dinner made the day very interesting, but the
evenings were tedious. As a rule, their master went off somewhere in the
evening and took the cat and the gander with him. Left alone, Auntie lay
down on her little mattress and began to feel sad.

Melancholy crept on her imperceptibly and took possession of her by
degrees, as darkness does of a room. It began with the dog's losing
every inclination to bark, to eat, to run about the rooms, and even to
look at things; then vague figures, half dogs, half human beings, with
countenances attractive, pleasant, but incomprehensible, would appear in
her imagination; when they came Auntie wagged her tail, and it seemed to
her that she had somewhere, at some time, seen them and loved them. And
as she dropped asleep, she always felt that those figures smelt of glue,
shavings, and varnish.

When she had grown quite used to her new life, and from a thin, long
mongrel, had changed into a sleek, well-groomed dog, her master looked
at her one day before the lesson and said:

"It's high time, Auntie, to get to business. You have kicked up your
heels in idleness long enough. I want to make an artiste of you. . . .
Do you want to be an artiste?"

And he began teaching her various accomplishments. At the first lesson
he taught her to stand and walk on her hind legs, which she liked
extremely. At the second lesson she had to jump on her hind legs and
catch some sugar, which her teacher held high above her head. After
that, in the following lessons she danced, ran tied to a cord, howled to
music, rang the bell, and fired the pistol, and in a month could
successfully replace Fyodor Timofeyitch in the "Egyptian Pyramid." She
learned very eagerly and was pleased with her own success; running with
her tongue out on the cord, leaping through the hoop, and riding on old
Fyodor Timofeyitch, gave her the greatest enjoyment. She accompanied
every successful trick with a shrill, delighted bark, while her teacher
wondered, was also delighted, and rubbed his hands.

"It's talent! It's talent!" he said. "Unquestionable talent! You will
certainly be successful!"

And Auntie grew so used to the word talent, that every time her master
pronounced it, she jumped up as if it had been her name. VI

|An Uneasy Night

Auntie had a doggy dream that a porter ran after her with a broom, and
she woke up in a fright.

It was quite dark and very stuffy in the room. The fleas were biting.
Auntie had never been afraid of darkness before, but now, for some
reason, she felt frightened and inclined to bark.

Her master heaved a loud sigh in the next room, then soon afterwards the
sow grunted in her sty, and then all was still again. When one thinks
about eating one's heart grows lighter, and Auntie began thinking how
that day she had stolen the leg of a chicken from Fyodor Timofeyitch,
and had hidden it in the drawing-room, between the cupboard and the
wall, where there were a great many spiders' webs and a great deal of
dust. Would it not be as well to go now and look whether the chicken leg
were still there or not? It was very possible that her master had found
it and eaten it. But she must not go out of the room before morning,
that was the rule. Auntie shut her eyes to go to sleep as quickly as
possible, for she knew by experience that the sooner you go to sleep the
sooner the morning comes. But all at once there was a strange scream not
far from her which made her start and jump up on all four legs. It was
Ivan Ivanitch, and his cry was not babbling and persuasive as usual, but
a wild, shrill, unnatural scream like the squeak of a door opening.
Unable to distinguish anything in the darkness, and not understanding
what was wrong, Auntie felt still more frightened and growled: "R-r-r-r.
. . ."

Some time passed, as long as it takes to eat a good bone; the scream was
not repeated. Little by little Auntie's uneasiness passed off and she
began to doze. She dreamed of two big black dogs with tufts of last
year's coat left on their haunches and sides; they were eating out of a
big basin some swill, from which there came a white steam and a most
appetising smell; from time to time they looked round at Auntie, showed
their teeth and growled: "We are not going to give you any!" But a
peasant in a fur-coat ran out of the house and drove them away with a
whip; then Auntie went up to the basin and began eating, but as soon as
the peasant went out of the gate, the two black dogs rushed at her
growling, and all at once there was again a shrill scream.

"K-gee! K-gee-gee!" cried Ivan Ivanitch.

Auntie woke, jumped up and, without leaving her mattress, went off into
a yelping bark. It seemed to her that it was not Ivan Ivanitch that was
screaming but someone else, and for some reason the sow again grunted in
her sty.

Then there was the sound of shuffling slippers, and the master came into
the room in his dressing-gown with a candle in his hand. The flickering
light danced over the dirty wall-paper and the ceiling, and chased away
the darkness. Auntie saw that there was no stranger in the room. Ivan
Ivanitch was sitting on the floor and was not asleep. His wings were
spread out and his beak was open, and altogether he looked as though he
were very tired and thirsty. Old Fyodor Timofeyitch was not asleep
either. He, too, must have been awakened by the scream.

"Ivan Ivanitch, what's the matter with you?" the master asked the
gander. "Why are you screaming? Are you ill?"

The gander did not answer. The master touched him on the neck, stroked
his back, and said: "You are a queer chap. You don't sleep yourself, and
you don't let other people. . . ."

When the master went out, carrying the candle with him, there was
darkness again. Auntie felt frightened. The gander did not scream, but
again she fancied that there was some stranger in the room. What was
most dreadful was that this stranger could not be bitten, as he was
unseen and had no shape. And for some reason she thought that something
very bad would certainly happen that night. Fyodor Timofeyitch was
uneasy too.

Auntie could hear him shifting on his mattress, yawning and shaking his
head.

Somewhere in the street there was a knocking at a gate and the sow
grunted in her sty. Auntie began to whine, stretched out her front-paws
and laid her head down upon them. She fancied that in the knocking at
								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes