The Chorus Girl Page #10

"The Chorus Girl" is a poignant short story by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov that explores themes of love, ambition, and the complexities of human relationships. The narrative follows a young chorus girl who hopes for a better life and dreams of love, but finds herself confronting the harsh realities of her circumstances. Chekhov's insightful character portrayals and subtle social commentary reveal the emotional struggles and unfulfilled desires of the protagonist, ultimately offering a nuanced reflection on the fleeting nature of happiness and the often disillusioning pursuit of dreams.

								

something like Glory her face burned with shame; but she took no part in
dramatic performances, and came to the rehearsals only for a moment on
some special errand, and did not go into the hall. Now, too, it was
evident that she had only looked in for a minute.

"My father was speaking about you," she said drily, blushing and not
looking at me. "Dolzhikov has promised you a post on the railway-line.
Apply to him to-morrow; he will be at home."

I bowed and thanked her for the trouble she had taken.

"And you can give up this," she said, indicating the exercise book.

My sister and she went up to Madame Azhogin and for two minutes they
were whispering with her looking towards me; they were consulting about
something.

"Yes, indeed," said Madame Azhogin, softly coming up to me and looking
intently into my face. "Yes, indeed, if this distracts you from serious
pursuits"-she took the manuscript book from my hands-"you can hand it
over to someone else; don't distress yourself, my friend, go home, and
good luck to you."

I said good-bye to her, and went away overcome with confusion. As I went
down the stairs I saw my sister and Anyuta Blagovo going away; they were
hastening along, talking eagerly about something, probably about my
going into the railway service. My sister had never been at a rehearsal
before, and now she was most likely conscience-stricken, and afraid her
father might find out that, without his permission, she had been to the
Azhogins'!

I went to Dolzhikov's next day between twelve and one. The footman
conducted me into a very beautiful room, which was the engineer's
drawing-room, and, at the same time, his working study. Everything here
was soft and elegant, and, for a man so unaccustomed to luxury as I was,
it seemed strange. There were costly rugs, huge arm-chairs, bronzes,
pictures, gold and plush frames; among the photographs scattered about
the walls there were very beautiful women, clever, lovely faces, easy
attitudes; from the drawing-room there was a door leading straight into
the garden on to a verandah: one could see lilac-trees; one could see a
table laid for lunch, a number of bottles, a bouquet of roses; there was
a fragrance of spring and expensive cigars, a fragrance of happiness-and
everything seemed as though it would say: "Here is a man who has lived
and laboured, and has attained at last the happiness possible on earth."
The engineer's daughter was sitting at the writing-table, reading a
newspaper.

"You have come to see my father?" she asked. "He is having a shower
bath; he will be here directly. Please sit down and wait."

I sat down.

"I believe you live opposite?" she questioned me, after a brief silence.

"Yes."

"I am so bored that I watch you every day out of the window; you must
excuse me," she went on, looking at the newspaper, "and I often see your
sister; she always has such a look of kindness and concentration."

Dolzhikov came in. He was rubbing his neck with a towel.

"Papa, Monsieur Poloznev," said his daughter.

"Yes, yes, Blagovo was telling me," he turned briskly to me without
giving me his hand. "But listen, what can I give you? What sort of posts
have I got? You are a queer set of people!" he went on aloud in a tone
as though he were giving me a lecture. "A score of you keep coming to me
every day; you imagine I am the head of a department! I am constructing
a railway-line, my friends; I have employment for heavy labour: I need
mechanics, smiths, navvies, carpenters, well-sinkers, and none of you
can do anything but sit and write! You are all clerks."

And he seemed to me to have the same air of happiness as his rugs and
easy chairs. He was stout and healthy, ruddy-cheeked and broad-chested,
in a print cotton shirt and full trousers like a toy china sledge-
driver. He had a curly, round beard-and not a single grey hair-a hooked
nose, and clear, dark, guileless eyes.

"What can you do?" he went on. "There is nothing you can do! I am an
engineer. I am a man of an assured position, but before they gave me a
railway-line I was for years in harness; I have been a practical
mechanic. For two years I worked in Belgium as an oiler. You can judge
for yourself, my dear fellow, what kind of work can I offer you?"

"Of course that is so . . ." I muttered in extreme confusion, unable to
face his clear, guileless eyes.

"Can you work the telegraph, any way?" he asked, after a moment's
thought.

"Yes, I have been a telegraph clerk."

"Hm! Well, we will see then. Meanwhile, go to Dubetchnya. I have got a
fellow there, but he is a wretched creature."

"And what will my duties consist of?" I asked.

"We shall see. Go there; meanwhile I will make arrangements. Only please
don't get drunk, and don't worry me with requests of any sort, or I
shall send you packing."

He turned away from me without even a nod.

I bowed to him and his daughter who was reading a newspaper, and went
away. My heart felt so heavy, that when my sister began asking me how
the engineer had received me, I could not utter a single word.

I got up early in the morning, at sunrise, to go to Dubetchnya. There
was not a soul in our Great Dvoryansky Street; everyone was asleep, and
my footsteps rang out with a solitary, hollow sound. The poplars,
covered with dew, filled the air with soft fragrance. I was sad, and did
not want to go away from the town. I was fond of my native town. It
seemed to be so beautiful and so snug! I loved the fresh greenery, the
still, sunny morning, the chiming of our bells; but the people with whom
I lived in this town were boring, alien to me, sometimes even repulsive.
I did not like them nor understand them.

I did not understand what these sixty-five thousand people lived for and
by. I knew that Kimry lived by boots, that Tula made samovars and guns,
that Odessa was a sea-port, but what our town was, and what it did, I
did not know. Great Dvoryansky Street and the two other smartest streets
lived on the interest of capital, or on salaries received by officials
from the public treasury; but what the other eight streets, which ran
parallel for over two miles and vanished beyond the hills, lived upon,
was always an insoluble riddle to me. And the way those people lived one
is ashamed to describe! No garden, no theatre, no decent band; the
public library and the club library were only visited by Jewish youths,
so that the magazines and new books lay for months uncut; rich and well-
educated people slept in close, stuffy bedrooms, on wooden bedsteads
infested with bugs; their children were kept in revoltingly dirty rooms
called nurseries, and the servants, even the old and respected ones,
slept on the floor in the kitchen, covered with rags. On ordinary days
the houses smelt of beetroot soup, and on fast days of sturgeon cooked
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