Martyrs

"Martyrs" is a poignant short story by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov that delves into the complexities of human relationships and the theme of self-sacrifice. The narrative centers around a devoted mother who struggles with the burdens of parental sacrifice, highlighting the emotional and moral dilemmas faced by individuals in their pursuit of love and duty. Through Chekhov's masterful storytelling, readers are invited to reflect on the nuances of compassion, suffering, and the often-unrecognized sacrifices made in the name of love. The story encapsulates Chekhov's signature style of exploring the intricacies of the human condition, making it a powerful and thought-provoking read.

								
LIZOTCHKA KUDRINSKY, a young married lady who had many admirers, was
suddenly taken ill, and so seriously that her husband did not go to his
office, and a telegram was sent to her mamma at Tver. This is how she
told the story of her illness:

"I went to Lyesnoe to auntie's. I stayed there a week and then I went
with all the rest to cousin Varya's. Varya's husband is a surly brute
and a despot (I'd shoot a husband like that), but we had a very jolly
time there. To begin with I took part in some private theatricals. It
was A Scandal in a Respectable Family. Hrustalev acted marvellously!
Between the acts I drank some cold, awfully cold, lemon squash, with the
tiniest nip of brandy in it. Lemon squash with brandy in it is very much
like champagne. . . . I drank it and I felt nothing. Next day after the
performance I rode out on horseback with that Adolf Ivanitch. It was
rather damp and there was a strong wind. It was most likely then that I
caught cold. Three days later I came home to see how my dear, good
Vassya was getting on, and while here to get my silk dress, the one that
has little flowers on it. Vassya, of course, I did not find at home. I
went into the kitchen to tell Praskovya to set the samovar, and there I
saw on the table some pretty little carrots and turnips like playthings.
I ate one little carrot and well, a turnip too. I ate very little, but
only fancy, I began having a sharp pain at once--spasms . . . spasms . .
. spasms . . . ah, I am dying. Vassya runs from the office. Naturally he
clutches at his hair and turns white. They run for the doctor. . . . Do
you understand, I am dying, dying."

The spasms began at midday, before three o'clock the doctor came, and at
six Lizotchka fell asleep and slept soundly till two o'clock in the
morning.

It strikes two. . . . The light of the little night lamp filters
scantily through the pale blue shade. Lizotchka is lying in bed, her
white lace cap stands out sharply against the dark background of the red
cushion. Shadows from the blue lamp-shade lie in patterns on her pale
face and her round plump shoulders. Vassily Stepanovitch is sitting at
her feet. The poor fellow is happy that his wife is at home at last, and
at the same time he is terribly alarmed by her illness.

"Well, how do you feel, Lizotchka?" he asks in a whisper, noticing that
she is awake.

"I am better," moans Lizotchka. "I don't feel the spasms now, but there
is no sleeping. . . . I can't get to sleep!"

"Isn't it time to change the compress, my angel?"

Lizotchka sits up slowly with the expression of a martyr and gracefully
turns her head on one side. Vassily Stepanovitch with reverent awe,
scarcely touching her hot body with his fingers, changes the compress.
Lizotchka shrinks, laughs at the cold water which tickles her, and lies
down again.

"You are getting no sleep, poor boy!" she moans.

"As though I could sleep!"

"It's my nerves, Vassya, I am a very nervous woman. The doctor has
prescribed for stomach trouble, but I feel that he doesn't understand my
illness. It's nerves and not the stomach, I swear that it is my nerves.
There is only one thing I am afraid of, that my illness may take a bad
turn."

"No, Lizotchka, no, to-morrow you will be all right!"

"Hardly likely! I am not afraid for myself. . . . I don't care, indeed,
I shall be glad to die, but I am sorry for you! You'll be a widower and
left all alone."

Vassitchka rarely enjoys his wife's society, and has long been used to
solitude, but Lizotchka's words agitate him.

"Goodness knows what you are saying, little woman! Why these gloomy
thoughts?"

"Well, you will cry and grieve, and then you will get used to it. You'll
even get married again."

The husband clutches his head.

"There, there, I won't!" Lizotchka soothes him, "only you ought to be
prepared for anything."

"And all of a sudden I shall die," she thinks, shutting her eyes.

And Lizotchka draws a mental picture of her own death, how her mother,
her husband, her cousin Varya with her husband, her relations, the
admirers of her "talent" press round her death bed, as she whispers her
last farewell. All are weeping. Then when she is dead they dress her,
interestingly pale and dark-haired, in a pink dress (it suits her) and
lay her in a very expensive coffin on gold legs, full of flowers. There
is a smell of incense, the candles splutter. Her husband never leaves
the coffin, while the admirers of her talent cannot take their eyes off
her, and say: "As though living! She is lovely in her coffin!" The whole
town is talking of the life cut short so prematurely. But now they are
carrying her to the church. The bearers are Ivan Petrovitch, Adolf
Ivanitch, Varya's husband, Nikolay Semyonitch, and the black-eyed
student who had taught her to drink lemon squash with brandy. It's only
a pity there's no music playing. After the burial service comes the
leave-taking. The church is full of sobs, they bring the lid with
tassels, and . . . Lizotchka is shut off from the light of day for ever,
there is the sound of hammering nails. Knock, knock, knock.

Lizotchka shudders and opens her eyes.

"Vassya, are you here?" she asks. "I have such gloomy thoughts.
Goodness, why am I so unlucky as not to sleep. Vassya, have pity, do
tell me something!"

"What shall I tell you?"

"Something about love," Lizotchka says languidly. "Or some anecdote
about Jews. . . ."

Vassily Stepanovitch, ready for anything if only his wife will be
cheerful and not talk about death, combs locks of hair over his ears,
makes an absurd face, and goes up to Lizotchka.

"Does your vatch vant mending?" he asks.

"It does, it does," giggles Lizotchka, and hands him her gold watch from
the little table. "Mend it."

Vassya takes the watch, examines the mechanism for a long time, and
wriggling and shrugging, says: "She can not be mended . . . in vun veel
two cogs are vanting. . . ."

This is the whole performance. Lizotchka laughs and claps her hands.

"Capital," she exclaims. "Wonderful. Do you know, Vassya, it's awfully
stupid of you not to take part in amateur theatricals! You have a
remarkable talent! You are much better than Sysunov. There was an
amateur called Sysunov who played with us in It's My Birthday. A first-
class comic talent, only fancy: a nose as thick as a parsnip, green
eyes, and he walks like a crane. . . . We all roared; stay, I will show
you how he walks."

Lizotchka springs out of bed and begins pacing about the floor,
barefooted and without her cap.

"A very good day to you!" she says in a bass, imitating a man's voice.
"Anything pretty? Anything new under the moon? Ha, ha, ha!" she laughs.

"Ha, ha, ha!" Vassya seconds her. And the young pair, roaring with

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