The Darling Page #3

"The Darling" is a poignant short story by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov that explores themes of identity, dependence, and the nature of love. The narrative follows the life of Olga Semyonovna, a woman who effortlessly adapts her identity to fit the men in her life, from her first husband to her subsequent lovers. As she loses herself in their passions and dreams, her own individuality becomes increasingly obscured. Chekhov's subtle yet sharp commentary reveals the emotional cost of such self-abnegation and raises questions about the complexities of human relationships and the search for genuine selfhood. Through rich characterization and a delicate touch, the story unveils the fragility of both love and personal identity.

								

and by some strange connection of ideas, they went up to the holy ikons,
bowed to the ground before them and prayed that God would give them
children.

And so the Pustovalovs lived for six years quietly and peaceably in love
and complete harmony.

But behold! one winter day after drinking hot tea in the office, Vassily
Andreitch went out into the yard without his cap on to see about sending
off some timber, caught cold and was taken ill. He had the best doctors,
but he grew worse and died after four months' illness. And Olenka was a
widow once more.

"I've nobody, now you've left me, my darling," she sobbed, after her
husband's funeral. "How can I live without you, in wretchedness and
misery! Pity me, good people, all alone in the world!"

She went about dressed in black with long "weepers," and gave up wearing
hat and gloves for good. She hardly ever went out, except to church, or
to her husband's grave, and led the life of a nun. It was not till six
months later that she took off the weepers and opened the shutters of
the windows. She was sometimes seen in the mornings, going with her cook
to market for provisions, but what went on in her house and how she
lived now could only be surmised. People guessed, from seeing her
drinking tea in her garden with the veterinary surgeon, who read the
newspaper aloud to her, and from the fact that, meeting a lady she knew
at the post-office, she said to her:

"There is no proper veterinary inspection in our town, and that's the
cause of all sorts of epidemics. One is always hearing of people's
getting infection from the milk supply, or catching diseases from horses
and cows. The health of domestic animals ought to be as well cared for
as the health of human beings."

She repeated the veterinary surgeon's words, and was of the same opinion
as he about everything. It was evident that she could not live a year
without some attachment, and had found new happiness in the lodge. In
any one else this would have been censured, but no one could think ill
of Olenka; everything she did was so natural. Neither she nor the
veterinary surgeon said anything to other people of the change in their
relations, and tried, indeed, to conceal it, but without success, for
Olenka could not keep a secret. When he had visitors, men serving in his
regiment, and she poured out tea or served the supper, she would begin
talking of the cattle plague, of the foot and mouth disease, and of the
municipal slaughterhouses. He was dreadfully embarrassed, and when the
guests had gone, he would seize her by the hand and hiss angrily:

"I've asked you before not to talk about what you don't understand. When
we veterinary surgeons are talking among ourselves, please don't put
your word in. It's really annoying."

And she would look at him with astonishment and dismay, and ask him in
alarm: "But, Voloditchka, what am I to talk about?"

And with tears in her eyes she would embrace him, begging him not to be
angry, and they were both happy.

But this happiness did not last long. The veterinary surgeon departed,
departed for ever with his regiment, when it was transferred to a
distant place--to Siberia, it may be. And Olenka was left alone.

Now she was absolutely alone. Her father had long been dead, and his
armchair lay in the attic, covered with dust and lame of one leg. She
got thinner and plainer, and when people met her in the street they did
not look at her as they used to, and did not smile to her; evidently her
best years were over and left behind, and now a new sort of life had
begun for her, which did not bear thinking about. In the evening Olenka
sat in the porch, and heard the band playing and the fireworks popping
in the Tivoli, but now the sound stirred no response. She looked into
her yard without interest, thought of nothing, wished for nothing, and
afterwards, when night came on she went to bed and dreamed of her empty
yard. She ate and drank as it were unwillingly.

And what was worst of all, she had no opinions of any sort. She saw the
objects about her and understood what she saw, but could not form any
opinion about them, and did not know what to talk about. And how awful
it is not to have any opinions! One sees a bottle, for instance, or the
rain, or a peasant driving in his cart, but what the bottle is for, or
the rain, or the peasant, and what is the meaning of it, one can't say,
and could not even for a thousand roubles. When she had Kukin, or
Pustovalov, or the veterinary surgeon, Olenka could explain everything,
and give her opinion about anything you like, but now there was the same
emptiness in her brain and in her heart as there was in her yard
outside. And it was as harsh and as bitter as wormwood in the mouth.

Little by little the town grew in all directions. The road became a
street, and where the Tivoli and the timber-yard had been, there were
new turnings and houses. How rapidly time passes! Olenka's house grew
dingy, the roof got rusty, the shed sank on one side, and the whole yard
was overgrown with docks and stinging-nettles. Olenka herself had grown
plain and elderly; in summer she sat in the porch, and her soul, as
before, was empty and dreary and full of bitterness. In winter she sat
at her window and looked at the snow. When she caught the scent of
spring, or heard the chime of the church bells, a sudden rush of
memories from the past came over her, there was a tender ache in her
heart, and her eyes brimmed over with tears; but this was only for a
minute, and then came emptiness again and the sense of the futility of
life. The black kitten, Briska, rubbed against her and purred softly,
but Olenka was not touched by these feline caresses. That was not what
she needed. She wanted a love that would absorb her whole being, her
whole soul and reason--that would give her ideas and an object in life,
and would warm her old blood. And she would shake the kitten off her
skirt and say with vexation:

"Get along; I don't want you!"

And so it was, day after day and year after year, and no joy, and no
opinions. Whatever Mavra, the cook, said she accepted.

One hot July day, towards evening, just as the cattle were being driven
away, and the whole yard was full of dust, some one suddenly knocked at
the gate. Olenka went to open it herself and was dumbfounded when she
looked out: she saw Smirnin, the veterinary surgeon, grey-headed, and
dressed as a civilian. She suddenly remembered everything. She could not
help crying and letting her head fall on his breast without uttering a
word, and in the violence of her feeling she did not notice how they
both walked into the house and sat down to tea.

"My dear Vladimir Platonitch! What fate has brought you?" she muttered,
trembling with joy.

"I want to settle here for good, Olga Semyonovna," he told her. "I have
resigned my post, and have come to settle down and try my luck on my own
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