Kashtanka Page #5

"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.

								

the gate, in the grunting of the sow, who was for some reason awake, in
the darkness and the stillness, there was something as miserable and
dreadful as in Ivan Ivanitch's scream. Everything was in agitation and
anxiety, but why? Who was the stranger who could not be seen? Then two
dim flashes of green gleamed for a minute near Auntie. It was Fyodor
Timofeyitch, for the first time of their whole acquaintance coming up to
her. What did he want? Auntie licked his paw, and not asking why he had
come, howled softly and on various notes.

"K-gee!" cried Ivan Ivanitch, "K-g-ee!"

The door opened again and the master came in with a candle.

The gander was sitting in the same attitude as before, with his beak
open, and his wings spread out, his eyes were closed.

"Ivan Ivanitch!" his master called him.

The gander did not stir. His master sat down before him on the floor,
looked at him in silence for a minute, and said:

"Ivan Ivanitch, what is it? Are you dying? Oh, I remember now, I
remember!" he cried out, and clutched at his head. "I know why it is!
It's because the horse stepped on you to-day! My God! My God!"

Auntie did not understand what her master was saying, but she saw from
his face that he, too, was expecting something dreadful. She stretched
out her head towards the dark window, where it seemed to her some
stranger was looking in, and howled.

"He is dying, Auntie!" said her master, and wrung his hands. "Yes, yes,
he is dying! Death has come into your room. What are we to do?"

Pale and agitated, the master went back into his room, sighing and
shaking his head. Auntie was afraid to remain in the darkness, and
followed her master into his bedroom. He sat down on the bed and
repeated several times: "My God, what's to be done?"

Auntie walked about round his feet, and not understanding why she was
wretched and why they were all so uneasy, and trying to understand,
watched every movement he made. Fyodor Timofeyitch, who rarely left his
little mattress, came into the master's bedroom too, and began rubbing
himself against his feet. He shook his head as though he wanted to shake
painful thoughts out of it, and kept peeping suspiciously under the bed.

The master took a saucer, poured some water from his wash-stand into it,
and went to the gander again.

"Drink, Ivan Ivanitch!" he said tenderly, setting the saucer before him;
"drink, darling."

But Ivan Ivanitch did not stir and did not open his eyes. His master
bent his head down to the saucer and dipped his beak into the water, but
the gander did not drink, he spread his wings wider than ever, and his
head remained lying in the saucer.

"No, there's nothing to be done now," sighed his master. "It's all over.
Ivan Ivanitch is gone!"

And shining drops, such as one sees on the window-pane when it rains,
trickled down his cheeks. Not understanding what was the matter, Auntie
and Fyodor Timofeyitch snuggled up to him and looked with horror at the
gander.

"Poor Ivan Ivanitch!" said the master, sighing mournfully. "And I was
dreaming I would take you in the spring into the country, and would walk
with you on the green grass. Dear creature, my good comrade, you are no
more! How shall I do without you now?"

It seemed to Auntie that the same thing would happen to her, that is,
that she too, there was no knowing why, would close her eyes, stretch
out her paws, open her mouth, and everyone would look at her with
horror. Apparently the same reflections were passing through the brain
of Fyodor Timofeyitch. Never before had the old cat been so morose and
gloomy.

It began to get light, and the unseen stranger who had so frightened
Auntie was no longer in the room. When it was quite daylight, the porter
came in, took the gander, and carried him away. And soon afterwards the
old woman came in and took away the trough.

Auntie went into the drawing-room and looked behind the cupboard: her
master had not eaten the chicken bone, it was lying in its place among
the dust and spiders' webs. But Auntie felt sad and dreary and wanted to
cry. She did not even sniff at the bone, but went under the sofa, sat
down there, and began softly whining in a thin voice. VII

|An Unsuccessful Début

One fine evening the master came into the room with the dirty wall-
paper, and, rubbing his hands, said:

"Well. . . ."

He meant to say something more, but went away without saying it. Auntie,
who during her lessons had thoroughly studied his face and intonations,
divined that he was agitated, anxious and, she fancied, angry. Soon
afterwards he came back and said:

"To-day I shall take with me Auntie and F'yodor Timofeyitch. To-day,
Auntie, you will take the place of poor Ivan Ivanitch in the 'Egyptian
Pyramid.' Goodness knows how it will be! Nothing is ready, nothing has
been thoroughly studied, there have been few rehearsals! We shall be
disgraced, we shall come to grief!"

Then he went out again, and a minute later, came back in his fur-coat
and top hat. Going up to the cat he took him by the fore-paws and put
him inside the front of his coat, while Fyodor Timofeyitch appeared
completely unconcerned, and did not even trouble to open his eyes. To
him it was apparently a matter of absolute indifference whether he
remained lying down, or were lifted up by his paws, whether he rested on
his mattress or under his master's fur-coat.

"Come along, Auntie," said her master.

Wagging her tail, and understanding nothing, Auntie followed him. A
minute later she was sitting in a sledge by her master's feet and heard
him, shrinking with cold and anxiety, mutter to himself:

"We shall be disgraced! We shall come to grief!"

The sledge stopped at a big strange-looking house, like a soup-ladle
turned upside down. The long entrance to this house, with its three
glass doors, was lighted up with a dozen brilliant lamps. The doors
opened with a resounding noise and, like jaws, swallowed up the people
who were moving to and fro at the entrance. There were a great many
people, horses, too, often ran up to the entrance, but no dogs were to
be seen.

The master took Auntie in his arms and thrust her in his coat, where
Fyodor Timofeyirch already was. It was dark and stuffy there, but warm.
For an instant two green sparks flashed at her; it was the cat, who
opened his eyes on being disturbed by his neighbour's cold rough paws.
Auntie licked his ear, and, trying to settle herself as comfortably as
possible, moved uneasily, crushed him under her cold paws, and casually
poked her head out from under the coat, but at once growled angrily, and
tucked it in again. It seemed to her that she had seen a huge, badly
lighted room, full of monsters; from behind screens and gratings, which
stretched on both sides of the room, horrible faces looked out: faces of
horses with horns, with long ears, and one fat, huge countenance with a
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