The Looking-glass

"The Looking-Glass" by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov is a poignant short story that explores themes of self-perception, identity, and the complexities of human relationships. Through the lens of an intimate encounter, Chekhov delves into the characters' internal struggles and desires, revealing how individuals often grapple with their reflections—both literal and metaphorical. The narrative highlights the contrasts between reality and illusion, prompting readers to reflect on how they see themselves and the masks they wear in society. Chekhov's trademark subtlety and keen psychological insight make this story a thought-provoking examination of the human condition.

								
NEW YEAR'S EVE. Nellie, the daughter of a landowner and general, a young
and pretty girl, dreaming day and night of being married, was sitting in
her room, gazing with exhausted, half-closed eyes into the looking-
glass. She was pale, tense, and as motionless as the looking-glass.

The non-existent but apparent vista of a long, narrow corridor with
endless rows of candles, the reflection of her face, her hands, of the
frame--all this was already clouded in mist and merged into a boundless
grey sea. The sea was undulating, gleaming and now and then flaring
crimson. . . .

Looking at Nellie's motionless eyes and parted lips, one could hardly
say whether she was asleep or awake, but nevertheless she was seeing. At
first she saw only the smile and soft, charming expression of someone's
eyes, then against the shifting grey background there gradually appeared
the outlines of a head, a face, eyebrows, beard. It was he, the destined
one, the object of long dreams and hopes. The destined one was for
Nellie everything, the significance of life, personal happiness, career,
fate. Outside him, as on the grey background of the looking-glass, all
was dark, empty, meaningless. And so it was not strange that, seeing
before her a handsome, gently smiling face, she was conscious of bliss,
of an unutterably sweet dream that could not be expressed in speech or
on paper. Then she heard his voice, saw herself living under the same
roof with him, her life merged into his. Months and years flew by
against the grey background. And Nellie saw her future distinctly in all
its details.

Picture followed picture against the grey background. Now Nellie saw
herself one winter night knocking at the door of Stepan Lukitch, the
district doctor. The old dog hoarsely and lazily barked behind the gate.
The doctor's windows were in darkness. All was silence.

"For God's sake, for God's sake!" whispered Nellie.

But at last the garden gate creaked and Nellie saw the doctor's cook.

"Is the doctor at home?"

"His honour's asleep," whispered the cook into her sleeve, as though
afraid of waking her master.

"He's only just got home from his fever patients, and gave orders he was
not to be waked."

But Nellie scarcely heard the cook. Thrusting her aside, she rushed
headlong into the doctor's house. Running through some dark and stuffy
rooms, upsetting two or three chairs, she at last reached the doctor's
bedroom. Stepan Lukitch was lying on his bed, dressed, but without his
coat, and with pouting lips was breathing into his open hand. A little
night-light glimmered faintly beside him. Without uttering a word Nellie
sat down and began to cry. She wept bitterly, shaking all over.

"My husband is ill!" she sobbed out. Stepan Lukitch was silent. He
slowly sat up, propped his head on his hand, and looked at his visitor
with fixed, sleepy eyes. "My husband is ill!" Nellie continued,
restraining her sobs. "For mercy's sake come quickly. Make haste. . . .
Make haste!"

"Eh?" growled the doctor, blowing into his hand.

"Come! Come this very minute! Or . . . it's terrible to think! For
mercy's sake!"

And pale, exhausted Nellie, gasping and swallowing her tears, began
describing to the doctor her husband's illness, her unutterable terror.
Her sufferings would have touched the heart of a stone, but the doctor
looked at her, blew into his open hand, and--not a movement.

"I'll come to-morrow!" he muttered.

"That's impossible!" cried Nellie. "I know my husband has typhus! At
once . . . this very minute you are needed!"

"I . . . er . . . have only just come in," muttered the doctor. "For the
last three days I've been away, seeing typhus patients, and I'm
exhausted and ill myself. . . . I simply can't! Absolutely! I've caught
it myself! There!"

And the doctor thrust before her eyes a clinical thermometer.

"My temperature is nearly forty. . . . I absolutely can't. I can
scarcely sit up. Excuse me. I'll lie down. . . ."

The doctor lay down.

"But I implore you, doctor," Nellie moaned in despair. "I beseech you!
Help me, for mercy's sake! Make a great effort and come! I will repay
you, doctor!"

"Oh, dear! . . . Why, I have told you already. Ah!"

Nellie leapt up and walked nervously up and down the bedroom. She longed
to explain to the doctor, to bring him to reason. . . . She thought if
only he knew how dear her husband was to her and how unhappy she was, he
would forget his exhaustion and his illness. But how could she be
eloquent enough?

"Go to the Zemstvo doctor," she heard Stepan Lukitch's voice.

"That's impossible! He lives more than twenty miles from here, and time
is precious. And the horses can't stand it. It is thirty miles from us
to you, and as much from here to the Zemstvo doctor. No, it's
impossible! Come along, Stepan Lukitch. I ask of you an heroic deed.
Come, perform that heroic deed! Have pity on us!"

"It's beyond everything. . . . I'm in a fever . . . my head's in a whirl
. . . and she won't understand! Leave me alone!"

"But you are in duty bound to come! You cannot refuse to come! It's
egoism! A man is bound to sacrifice his life for his neighbour, and you
. . . you refuse to come! I will summon you before the Court."

Nellie felt that she was uttering a false and undeserved insult, but for
her husband's sake she was capable of forgetting logic, tact, sympathy
for others. . . . In reply to her threats, the doctor greedily gulped a
glass of cold water. Nellie fell to entreating and imploring like the
very lowest beggar. . . . At last the doctor gave way. He slowly got up,
puffing and panting, looking for his coat.

"Here it is!" cried Nellie, helping him. "Let me put it on to you. Come
along! I will repay you. . . . All my life I shall be grateful to you. .
. ."

But what agony! After putting on his coat the doctor lay down again.
Nellie got him up and dragged him to the hall. Then there was an
agonizing to-do over his goloshes, his overcoat. . . . His cap was lost.
. . . But at last Nellie was in the carriage with the doctor. Now they
had only to drive thirty miles and her husband would have a doctor's
help. The earth was wrapped in darkness. One could not see one's hand
before one's face. . . . A cold winter wind was blowing. There were
frozen lumps under their wheels. The coachman was continually stopping
and wondering which road to take.

Nellie and the doctor sat silent all the way. It was fearfully jolting,
but they felt neither the cold nor the jolts.

"Get on, get on!" Nellie implored the driver.

At five in the morning the exhausted horses drove into the yard. Nellie
saw the familiar gates, the well with the crane, the long row of stables
and barns. At last she was at home.

"Wait a moment, I will be back directly," she said to Stepan Lukitch,

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