The Chorus Girl Page #2

"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.

								

your position to squeeze out of my husband . . . that weak, unhappy man.
. . . On Thursday, when I saw you with my husband at the harbour you
were wearing expensive brooches and bracelets. So it's no use your
playing the innocent lamb to me! I ask you for the last time: will you
give me the things, or not?"

"You are a queer one, upon my word," said Pasha, beginning to feel
offended. "I assure you that, except the bracelet and this little ring,
I've never seen a thing from your Nikolay Petrovitch. He brings me
nothing but sweet cakes."

"Sweet cakes!" laughed the stranger. "At home the children have nothing
to eat, and here you have sweet cakes. You absolutely refuse to restore
the presents?"

Receiving no answer, the lady sat down and stared into space, pondering.

"What's to be done now?" she said. "If I don't get nine hundred roubles,
he is ruined, and the children and I am ruined, too. Shall I kill this
low woman or go down on my knees to her?"

The lady pressed her handkerchief to her face and broke into sobs.

"I beg you!" Pasha heard through the stranger's sobs. "You see you have
plundered and ruined my husband. Save him. . . . You have no feeling for
him, but the children . . . the children . . . What have the children
done?"

Pasha imagined little children standing in the street, crying with
hunger, and she, too, sobbed.

"What can I do, madam?" she said. "You say that I am a low woman and
that I have ruined Nikolay Petrovitch, and I assure you . . . before God
Almighty, I have had nothing from him whatever. . . . There is only one
girl in our chorus who has a rich admirer; all the rest of us live from
hand to mouth on bread and kvass. Nikolay Petrovitch is a highly
educated, refined gentleman, so I've made him welcome. We are bound to
make gentlemen welcome."

"I ask you for the things! Give me the things! I am crying. . . . I am
humiliating myself. . . . If you like I will go down on my knees! If you
wish it!"

Pasha shrieked with horror and waved her hands. She felt that this pale,
beautiful lady who expressed herself so grandly, as though she were on
the stage, really might go down on her knees to her, simply from pride,
from grandeur, to exalt herself and humiliate the chorus girl.

"Very well, I will give you things!" said Pasha, wiping her eyes and
bustling about. "By all means. Only they are not from Nikolay
Petrovitch. . . . I got these from other gentlemen. As you please. . .
."

Pasha pulled out the upper drawer of the chest, took out a diamond
brooch, a coral necklace, some rings and bracelets, and gave them all to
the lady.

"Take them if you like, only I've never had anything from your husband.
Take them and grow rich," Pasha went on, offended at the threat to go
down on her knees. "And if you are a lady . . . his lawful wife, you
should keep him to yourself. I should think so! I did not ask him to
come; he came of himself."

Through her tears the lady scrutinized the articles given her and said:

"This isn't everything. . . . There won't be five hundred roubles' worth
here."

Pasha impulsively flung out of the chest a gold watch, a cigar-case and
studs, and said, flinging up her hands:

"I've nothing else left. . . . You can search!"

The visitor gave a sigh, with trembling hands twisted the things up in
her handkerchief, and went out without uttering a word, without even
nodding her head.

The door from the next room opened and Kolpakov walked in. He was pale
and kept shaking his head nervously, as though he had swallowed
something very bitter; tears were glistening in his eyes.

"What presents did you make me?" Pasha asked, pouncing upon him. "When
did you, allow me to ask you?"

"Presents . . . that's no matter!" said Kolpakov, and he tossed his
head. "My God! She cried before you, she humbled herself. . . ."

"I am asking you, what presents did you make me?" Pasha cried.

"My God! She, a lady, so proud, so pure. . . . She was ready to go down
on her knees to . . . to this wench! And I've brought her to this! I've
allowed it!"

He clutched his head in his hands and moaned.

"No, I shall never forgive myself for this! I shall never forgive
myself! Get away from me . . . you low creature!" he cried with
repulsion, backing away from Pasha, and thrusting her off with trembling
hands. "She would have gone down on her knees, and . . . and to you! Oh,
my God!"

He rapidly dressed, and pushing Pasha aside contemptuously, made for the
door and went out.

Pasha lay down and began wailing aloud. She was already regretting her
things which she had given away so impulsively, and her feelings were
hurt. She remembered how three years ago a merchant had beaten her for
no sort of reason, and she wailed more loudly than ever. VEROTCHKA

IVAN ALEXEYITCH OGNEV remembers how on that August evening he opened the
glass door with a rattle and went out on to the verandah. He was wearing
a light Inverness cape and a wide-brimmed straw hat, the very one that
was lying with his top-boots in the dust under his bed. In one hand he
had a big bundle of books and notebooks, in the other a thick knotted
stick.

Behind the door, holding the lamp to show the way, stood the master of
the house, Kuznetsov, a bald old man with a long grey beard, in a snow-
white piqué jacket. The old man was smiling cordially and nodding his
head.

"Good-bye, old fellow!" said Ognev.

Kuznetsov put the lamp on a little table and went out to the verandah.
Two long narrow shadows moved down the steps towards the flower-beds,
swayed to and fro, and leaned their heads on the trunks of the lime-
trees.

"Good-bye and once more thank you, my dear fellow!" said Ivan
Alexeyitch. "Thank you for your welcome, for your kindness, for your
affection. . . . I shall never forget your hospitality as long as I
live. You are so good, and your daughter is so good, and everyone here
is so kind, so good-humoured and friendly . . . Such a splendid set of
people that I don't know how to say what I feel!"

From excess of feeling and under the influence of the home-made wine he
had just drunk, Ognev talked in a singing voice like a divinity student,
and was so touched that he expressed his feelings not so much by words
as by the blinking of his eyes and the twitching of his shoulders.
Kuznetsov, who had also drunk a good deal and was touched, craned
forward to the young man and kissed him.

"I've grown as fond of you as if I were your dog," Ognev went on. "I've
been turning up here almost every day; I've stayed the night a dozen
times. It's dreadful to think of all the home-made wine I've drunk. And
thank you most of all for your co-operation and help. Without you I
								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes