The Princess

"The Princess" by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov is a poignant short story that explores themes of love, social class, and the complexity of human relationships. The narrative revolves around a beautiful but spoiled princess who grapples with issues of loneliness and societal expectations. As she encounters a man from a lower social class, their interactions reveal the contradictions between desire and duty, ultimately leading to reflections on personal freedom and the constraints imposed by society. Chekhov masterfully combines humor and tragedy, offering a rich commentary on the human condition.

								
A CARRIAGE with four fine sleek horses drove in at the big so-called Red
Gate of the N--- Monastery. While it was still at a distance, the priests
and monks who were standing in a group round the part of the hostel
allotted to the gentry, recognised by the coachman and horses that the
lady in the carriage was Princess Vera Gavrilovna, whom they knew very
well.

An old man in livery jumped off the box and helped the princess to get
out of the carriage. She raised her dark veil and moved in a leisurely
way up to the priests to receive their blessing; then she nodded
pleasantly to the rest of the monks and went into the hostel.

"Well, have you missed your princess?" she said to the monk who brought
in her things. "It's a whole month since I've been to see you. But here
I am; behold your princess. And where is the Father Superior? My
goodness, I am burning with impatience! Wonderful, wonderful old man!
You must be proud of having such a Superior."

When the Father Superior came in, the princess uttered a shriek of
delight, crossed her arms over her bosom, and went up to receive his
blessing.

"No, no, let me kiss your hand," she said, snatching it and eagerly
kissing it three times. "How glad I am to see you at last, holy Father!
I'm sure you've forgotten your princess, but my thoughts have been in
your dear monastery every moment. How delightful it is here! This living
for God far from the busy, giddy world has a special charm of its own,
holy Father, which I feel with my whole soul although I cannot express
it!"

The princess's cheeks glowed and tears came into her eyes. She talked
incessantly, fervently, while the Father Superior, a grave, plain, shy
old man of seventy, remained mute or uttered abruptly, like a soldier on
duty, phrases such as:

"Certainly, Your Excellency. . . . Quite so. I understand."

"Has Your Excellency come for a long stay?" he inquired.

"I shall stay the night here, and to-morrow I'm going on to Klavdia
Nikolaevna's--it's a long time since I've seen her--and the day after to-
morrow I'll come back to you and stay three or four days. I want to rest
my soul here among you, holy Father. . . ."

The princess liked being at the monastery at N---. For the last two years
it had been a favourite resort of hers; she used to go there almost
every month in the summer and stay two or three days, even sometimes a
week. The shy novices, the stillness, the low ceilings, the smell of
cypress, the modest fare, the cheap curtains on the windows--all this
touched her, softened her, and disposed her to contemplation and good
thoughts. It was enough for her to be half an hour in the hostel for her
to feel that she, too, was timid and modest, and that she, too, smelt of
cypress-wood. The past retreated into the background, lost its
significance, and the princess began to imagine that in spite of her
twenty-nine years she was very much like the old Father Superior, and
that, like him, she was created not for wealth, not for earthly grandeur
and love, but for a peaceful life secluded from the world, a life in
twilight like the hostel.

It happens that a ray of light gleams in the dark cell of the anchorite
absorbed in prayer, or a bird alights on the window and sings its song;
the stern anchorite will smile in spite of himself, and a gentle,
sinless joy will pierce through the load of grief over his sins, like
water flowing from under a stone. The princess fancied she brought from
the outside world just such comfort as the ray of light or the bird. Her
gay, friendly smile, her gentle eyes, her voice, her jests, her whole
personality in fact, her little graceful figure always dressed in simple
black, must arouse in simple, austere people a feeling of tenderness and
joy. Every one, looking at her, must think: "God has sent us an angel. .
. ." And feeling that no one could help thinking this, she smiled still
more cordially, and tried to look like a bird.

After drinking tea and resting, she went for a walk. The sun was already
setting. From the monastery garden came a moist fragrance of freshly
watered mignonette, and from the church floated the soft singing of
men's voices, which seemed very pleasant and mournful in the distance.
It was the evening service. In the dark windows where the little lamps
glowed gently, in the shadows, in the figure of the old monk sitting at
the church door with a collecting-box, there was such unruffled peace
that the princess felt moved to tears.

Outside the gate, in the walk between the wall and the birch-trees where
there were benches, it was quite evening. The air grew rapidly darker
and darker. The princess went along the walk, sat on a seat, and sank
into thought.

She thought how good it would be to settle down for her whole life in
this monastery where life was as still and unruffled as a summer
evening; how good it would be to forget the ungrateful, dissipated
prince; to forget her immense estates, the creditors who worried her
every day, her misfortunes, her maid Dasha, who had looked at her
impertinently that morning. It would be nice to sit here on the bench
all her life and watch through the trunks of the birch-trees the evening
mist gathering in wreaths in the valley below; the rooks flying home in
a black cloud like a veil far, far away above the forest; two novices,
one astride a piebald horse, another on foot driving out the horses for
the night and rejoicing in their freedom, playing pranks like little
children; their youthful voices rang out musically in the still air, and
she could distinguish every word. It is nice to sit and listen to the
silence: at one moment the wind blows and stirs the tops of the birch-
trees, then a frog rustles in last year's leaves, then the clock on the
belfry strikes the quarter. . . . One might sit without moving, listen
and think, and think. . . .

An old woman passed by with a wallet on her back. The princess thought
that it would be nice to stop the old woman and to say something
friendly and cordial to her, to help her. . . . But the old woman turned
the corner without once looking round.

Not long afterwards a tall man with a grey beard and a straw hat came
along the walk. When he came up to the princess, he took off his hat and
bowed. From the bald patch on his head and his sharp, hooked nose the
princess recognised him as the doctor, Mihail Ivanovitch, who had been
in her service at Dubovki. She remembered that some one had told her
that his wife had died the year before, and she wanted to sympathise
with him, to console him.

"Doctor, I expect you don't recognise me?" she said with an affable
smile.

"Yes, Princess, I recognised you," said the doctor, taking off his hat
again.

"Oh, thank you; I was afraid that you, too, had forgotten your princess.
People only remember their enemies, but they forget their friends. Have
you, too, come to pray?"

"I am the doctor here, and I have to spend the night at the monastery

								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes