Misery "to Whom Shall I Tell my Grief?" Page #2

"Misery: To Whom Shall I Tell My Grief?" is a poignant short story by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov that explores themes of loneliness and the human need for connection. The narrative follows Iona Potapov, a Russian sledge driver mourning the recent death of his son. As he traverses the snowy streets, seeking solace, he attempts to share his sorrow with various passengers and townspeople, only to be met with indifference and a lack of empathy. Chekhov masterfully captures the profound isolation of grief and the struggle to find understanding in a seemingly indifferent world, highlighting the deep human desire to be heard and acknowledged in times of suffering.

								


"Cabman, are you married?" asks one of the tall ones.

"I? He he! Me-er-ry gentlemen. The only wife for me now is the damp
earth.... He-ho-ho!.... The grave that is!... Here my son's dead and I
am alive.... It's a strange thing, death has come in at the wrong
door.... Instead of coming for me it went for my son...."

And Iona turns round to tell them how his son died, but at that point
the hunchback gives a faint sigh and announces that, thank God! they
have arrived at last. After taking his twenty kopecks, Iona gazes for a
long while after the revelers, who disappear into a dark entry. Again he
is alone and again there is silence for him.... The misery which has
been for a brief space eased comes back again and tears his heart more
cruelly than ever. With a look of anxiety and suffering Iona's eyes
stray restlessly among the crowds moving to and fro on both sides of the
street: can he not find among those thousands someone who will listen to
him? But the crowds flit by heedless of him and his misery.... His
misery is immense, beyond all bounds. If Iona's heart were to burst and
his misery to flow out, it would flood the whole world, it seems, but
yet it is not seen. It has found a hiding-place in such an insignificant
shell that one would not have found it with a candle by daylight....

Iona sees a house-porter with a parcel and makes up his mind to address
him.

"What time will it be, friend?" he asks.

"Going on for ten.... Why have you stopped here? Drive on!"

Iona drives a few paces away, bends himself double, and gives himself up
to his misery. He feels it is no good to appeal to people. But before
five minutes have passed he draws himself up, shakes his head as though
he feels a sharp pain, and tugs at the reins.... He can bear it no
longer.

"Back to the yard!" he thinks. "To the yard!"

And his little mare, as though she knew his thoughts, falls to trotting.
An hour and a half later Iona is sitting by a big dirty stove. On the
stove, on the floor, and on the benches are people snoring. The air is
full of smells and stuffiness. Iona looks at the sleeping figures,
scratches himself, and regrets that he has come home so early....

"I have not earned enough to pay for the oats, even," he thinks. "That's
why I am so miserable. A man who knows how to do his work,... who has
had enough to eat, and whose horse has had enough to eat, is always at
ease...."

In one of the corners a young cabman gets up, clears his throat
sleepily, and makes for the water-bucket.

"Want a drink?" Iona asks him.

"Seems so."

"May it do you good.... But my son is dead, mate.... Do you hear? This
week in the hospital.... It's a queer business...."

Iona looks to see the effect produced by his words, but he sees nothing.
The young man has covered his head over and is already asleep. The old
man sighs and scratches himself.... Just as the young man had been
thirsty for water, he thirsts for speech. His son will soon have been
dead a week, and he has not really talked to anybody yet.... He wants to
talk of it properly, with deliberation.... He wants to tell how his son
was taken ill, how he suffered, what he said before he died, how he
died.... He wants to describe the funeral, and how he went to the
hospital to get his son's clothes. He still has his daughter Anisya in
the country.... And he wants to talk about her too.... Yes, he has
plenty to talk about now. His listener ought to sigh and exclaim and
lament.... It would be even better to talk to women. Though they are
silly creatures, they blubber at the first word.

"Let's go out and have a look at the mare," Iona thinks. "There is
always time for sleep.... You'll have sleep enough, no fear...."

He puts on his coat and goes into the stables where his mare is
standing. He thinks about oats, about hay, about the weather.... He
cannot think about his son when he is alone.... To talk about him with
someone is possible, but to think of him and picture him is insufferable
anguish....

"Are you munching?" Iona asks his mare, seeing her shining eyes. "There,
munch away, munch away.... Since we have not earned enough for oats, we
will eat hay.... Yes,... I have grown too old to drive.... My son ought
to be driving, not I.... He was a real cabman.... He ought to have
lived...."

Iona is silent for a while, and then he goes on:

"That's how it is, old girl.... Kuzma Ionitch is gone.... He said good-
by to me.... He went and died for no reason.... Now, suppose you had a
little colt, and you were own mother to that little colt. ... And all at
once that same little colt went and died.... You'd be sorry, wouldn't
you?..."

The little mare munches, listens, and breathes on her master's hands.
Iona is carried away and tells her all about it.
								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes