Lights Page #9

"Lives" is a poignant short story by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov that explores the complexities of human emotion and relationships. Set against the backdrop of ordinary life, the narrative delves into the introspections of its characters, revealing their innermost thoughts and struggles. Chekhov masterfully employs his signature style, blending subtle humor with deep pathos, as he examines themes of love, loss, and the fleeting nature of happiness. The story invites readers to reflect on the intricacies of human connections and the quiet moments that define our existence.

								

talk about it. . . . Such a life, such a life! . . .'

"Kisotchka did not finish. She clenched her teeth and moaned as though
she were doing her utmost not to scream with pain.

"'Such a life!' she repeated with horror, with the cadence and the
southern, rather Ukrainian accent which particularly in women gives to
emotional speech the effect of singing. 'It is a life! Ah, my God, my
God! what does it mean? Oh, my God, my God!'

"As though trying to solve the riddle of her fate, she shrugged her
shoulders in perplexity, shook her head, and clasped her hands. She
spoke as though she were singing, moved gracefully, and reminded me of a
celebrated Little Russian actress.

"'Great God, it is as though I were in a pit,' she went on. 'If one
could live for one minute in happiness as other people live! Oh, my God,
my God! I have come to such disgrace that before a stranger I am running
away from my husband by night, like some disreputable creature! Can I
expect anything good after that?'

"As I admired her movements and her voice, I began to feel annoyed that
she was not on good terms with her husband. 'It would be nice to have
got on into relations with her!' flitted through my mind; and this
pitiless thought stayed in my brain, haunted me all the way and grew
more and more alluring.

"About a mile from the flour mill we had to turn to the left by the
cemetery. At the turning by the corner of the cemetery there stood a
stone windmill, and by it a little hut in which the miller lived. We
passed the mill and the hut, turned to the left and reached the gates of
the cemetery. There Kisotchka stopped and said:

"'I am going back, Nikolay Anastasyitch! You go home, and God bless you,
but I am going back. I am not frightened.'

"'Well, what next!' I said, disconcerted. 'If you are going, you had
better go!'

"'I have been too hasty. . . . It was all about nothing that mattered.
You and your talk took me back to the past and put all sort of ideas
into my head. . . . I was sad and wanted to cry, and my husband said
rude things to me before that officer, and I could not bear it. . . .
And what's the good of my going to the town to my mother's? Will that
make me any happier? I must go back. . . . But never mind . . . let us
go on,' said Kisotchka, and she laughed. 'It makes no difference!'

"I remembered that over the gate of the cemetery there was an
inscription: 'The hour will come wherein all they that lie in the grave
will hear the voice of the Son of God.' I knew very well that sooner or
later I and Kisotchka and her husband and the officer in the white tunic
would lie under the dark trees in the churchyard; I knew that an unhappy
and insulted fellow-creature was walking beside me. All this I
recognised distinctly, but at the same time I was troubled by an
oppressive and unpleasant dread that Kisotchka would turn back, and that
I should not manage to say to her what had to be said. Never at any
other time in my life have thoughts of a higher order been so closely
interwoven with the basest animal prose as on that night. . . . It was
horrible!

"Not far from the cemetery we found a cab. When we reached the High
Street, where Kisotchka's mother lived, we dismissed the cab and walked
along the pavement. Kisotchka was silent all the while, while I looked
at her, and I raged at myself, 'Why don't you begin? Now's the time!'
About twenty paces from the hotel where I was staying, Kisotchka stopped
by the lamp-post and burst into tears.

"'Nikolay Anastasyitch!' she said, crying and laughing and looking at me
with wet shining eyes, 'I shall never forget your sympathy . . . . How
good you are! All of you are so splendid--all of you! Honest, great-
hearted, kind, clever. . . . Ah, how good that is!'

"She saw in me a highly educated man, advanced in every sense of the
word, and on her tear-stained laughing face, together with the emotion
and enthusiasm aroused by my personality, there was clearly written
regret that she so rarely saw such people, and that God had not
vouchsafed her the bliss of being the wife of one of them. She muttered,
'Ah, how splendid it is!' The childish gladness on her face, the tears,
the gentle smile, the soft hair, which had escaped from under the
kerchief, and the kerchief itself thrown carelessly over her head, in
the light of the street lamp reminded me of the old Kisotchka whom one
had wanted to stroke like a kitten.

"I could not restrain myself, and began stroking her hair, her
shoulders, and her hands.

"'Kisotchka, what do you want?' I muttered. 'I'll go to the ends of the
earth with you if you like! I will take you out of this hole and give
you happiness. I love you. . . . Let us go, my sweet? Yes? Will you?'

"Kisotchka's face was flooded with bewilderment. She stepped back from
the street lamp and, completely overwhelmed, gazed at me with wide-open
eyes. I gripped her by the arm, began showering kisses on her face, her
neck, her shoulders, and went on making vows and promises. In love
affairs vows and promises are almost a physiological necessity. There's
no getting on without them. Sometimes you know you are lying and that
promises are not necessary, but still you vow and protest. Kisotchka,
utterly overwhelmed, kept staggering back and gazing at me with round
eyes.

"'Please don't! Please don't!' she muttered, holding me off with her
hands.

"I clasped her tightly in my arms. All at once she broke into hysterical
tears. And her face had the same senseless blank expression that I had
seen in the summer-house when I lighted the matches. Without asking her
consent, preventing her from speaking, I dragged her forcibly towards my
hotel. She seemed almost swooning and did not walk, but I took her under
the arms and almost carried her. . . . I remember, as we were going up
the stairs, some man with a red band in his cap looked wonderingly at me
and bowed to Kisotchka. . . ."

Ananyev flushed crimson and paused. He walked up and down near the table
in silence, scratched the back of his head with an air of vexation, and
several times shrugged his shoulders and twitched his shoulder-blades,
while a shiver ran down his huge back. The memory was painful and made
him ashamed, and he was struggling with himself.

"It's horrible!" he said, draining a glass of wine and shaking his head.
"I am told that in every introductory lecture on women's diseases the
medical students are admonished to remember that each one of them has a
mother, a sister, a fiancée, before undressing and examining a female
patient. . . . That advice would be very good not only for medical
students but for everyone who in one way or another has to deal with a
woman's life. Now that I have a wife and a little daughter, oh, how well
I understand that advice! How I understand it, my God! You may as well
hear the rest, though. . . . As soon as she had become my mistress,
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